From The Ashes
by bite-or-avoid
Summary: Cordy would have called him a mentally deficient jackass, and she would have been right. Buffy/Angel, Spike, Faith, other canon characters *Chapter 23 UP*
1. Chapter 1 Burning Fire

**Title**: From The Ashes: Chapter 1~ Burning Fire  
**Author**: Anna (bite_or_avoid)  
**Characters**: Angel, Buffy, Faith, Spike, other canon characters**  
Rating**: M for later chapters. This chapter is PG.  
**Word Count**: 875 (This first one is *much* shorter than all the rest.)  
**Disclaimer**: Joss Whedon is an evil genious, who pwns all  
**Spoilers**: All canon Jossverse for both series; I've never read the comics, so they don't exist here. Post-NFA.

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**Chapter 1~ Burning Fire**

She had known the moment it happened. Not because she felt like the earth had been ripped out from under her. Not because she could feel the bile rising up in her throat. Not even because her hand flew to her neck instinctively, fingering the tiny puncture wounds that could no longer be seen, only felt. She had known because in that instant, she was overcome with an overwhelming sense of abandonment, an emptiness so deep that it terrified her. She had only felt this once before, a lifetime ago, when she was seventeen and in Sunnydale and stood in an empty mansion. When she had killed the man she loved to save the world.

She had been having a drink with the Immortal at the Gilda Club when it hit her, and she nearly screamed. She felt it, deep in, and she knew, and she was terrified. She broke off her heels running home.

It was all over the news channels. The fire, burning through everything. The darkness. The hole in the earth. L.A. burned. She ran to the bathroom and vomited.

There was no answer to her frantic calls. Not from _him_. Not from Wesley. Not even from Faith in Cleveland. Always, just the ringing.

***

He had come to help her, to face the Apocalypse with her, side by side. Again. Always. But that wasn't where she needed him. She needed him out there, in the world, fighting other battles, waging his own ferocious war against evil. Whoever wore the amulet would die. Some part of her had known that. She didn't want it to be him. But she still had hope. Hope for a victory, hope for tomorrow, hope for a future where she was just a woman and belonged to herself and not the world. She didn't really know who that woman was, but she wanted to find out. Maybe some day. She'd wanted him to understand that. Hence, the ill-phrased cookie analogy. Silly Buffy. Cookies? Really? But he'd understood. He wasn't getting any older.

She had found it in Europe. The future she'd hoped for, the self-discovery she needed. The opportunity to have a normal life. Or, as normal as was possible for her. She still loved him. But she wasn't ready.

When Andrew had been sent to L.A. to retrieve the rogue slayer, her orders had been explicit. No matter what he had to say to do it, he had to get the girl. She knew it would be a blow. She regretted that. She regretted making him think that she no longer trusted him, that she no longer knew him. She knew him. She had always known him, would always know him. He was working an angle. He was using Wolfram and Hart, even as they thought they were using him. He had a plan. But she wasn't a part of that. She had her side of the world and he had his. No one from her camp believed he hadn't been seduced by the darkness, not even Willow. It was easier to have him think she believed it too. She thought about calling and explaining the truth, giving him hope. She hadn't called. She hadn't dared.

He had been here. Not two weeks ago, _they _had been here. Her two souled vampires. When Andrew told her, she hadn't known if she was glad that she hadn't seen them, or disappointed. Now she didn't know if she would ever see either of them again.

***

The next day, a letter came. He never did like modern technology. He'd written it all down, in case _he _failed and needed _her_ to head up a second front. In his beautiful ancient writing, he told her everything. He knew he was walking into certain death. He still had faith in the world, because she was in it. He still loved her. He was sorry. She curled up and cried like when she was seventeen and he'd lost his soul. L.A. still burned.

***

The phone finally rang as she was packing a bag. Her heart nearly stopped by the time she answered it.

"Hello?"

"I hope you still got that handy fightin' scythe of yours, B."

"Faith? Where the hell are you?"

In a strange way, the familiar dry chuckle was almost comforting.

"You're not far off. Hell, L.A., same diff."

The silence seemed to stretch on forever. She didn't dare ask.

"B, I think, I mean, I don't really know but….." She stopped, hesitating.

Buffy choked back a sob.

"Angel?" It was the only word she could manage.

"I think he may still be alive. Or, you know, undead. Whatever."

A glimmer of hope, like a tiny warm light in the darkness began to glow.

"My flight lands at LAX at 3PM tomorrow."

Faith sighed.

"No scythe then, huh? You'll never get that thing through airport security."

Buffy managed the tiniest trace of a smile.

She headed for the door, her heart squeezing painfully. Alive. Undead. Not ashes scattered in the wind. Whatever, whichever, he had to be that still. Still out there, in the world.

If he was, she would find him. Even if she had to drag him up from the bowels of Hell with her bare hands.


	2. Chapter 2 Wreckage

**Disclaimer: **Not mine

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**Chapter 2~ Wreckage**

She called Giles from the airport.

"There has never been anything like it recorded, Buffy," he marveled from his end of the line. "The information is only just trickling in, but it looks like Angel took down the entire L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart. Quite literally, from the inside out."

He grew quiet. Only now, was the whole story beginning to piece itself together. It hurt him deeply to realize how undeserving Angel had been of his disdain. Buffy, on the other hand, had worked herself into a nervous rage.

"Stupid ass. Stupid, stupid, stubborn _ass_. Why didn't he tell us Giles? Send a note, something. 'Hey, it's me, going on a suicide mission to avert yet another Apocalypse. Just thought you should know.' Really not that hard. And, hello! Slayer here! Apocalypse is kinda my area of expertise." Buffy sobered from the outburst. Her next words were quiet. "I could have helped him Giles. _We_ _should_ have helped him."

"We did not exactly make it easy for him to think that we would. The last time he called me for help, I…." Giles trailed off sadly, not wanting to complete the thought that caused him such shame and regret.

Buffy let the unspoken words hang in the air. She had not known about the incident until after it was too late. She wasn't sure her relationship with Giles would ever be quite the same. But now wasn't the time to dwell on that.

"What do you need me to do Buffy?" He was trying. It was a start.

"Just do the book guy thing. Try to find Willow, I might need some spellage down the line. I'll keep you posted." She added softly, "We have to find him, Giles. We owe him that. At least that."

She hung up, wondering if there was anyone left to find.

It plagued her the entire flight. When she'd first felt it inside, she'd been sure he was gone. But the emptiness and darkness had receded, replaced instead by a dull ache. It was as if she'd lost a limb in battle. Yet somehow, she still felt him, in her blood, in her soul, and she allowed that tiny bud of hope to persist. If he were dust, she would know it. If he were dust, that despairing emptiness would never leave her.

She slept restlessly, her right hand resting against the place where he had marked her neck, the left clutching the place where he had marked her heart.

It was the longest 13 hours of her life.

***

Faith was uncharacteristically on time. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, dark circles under her eyes. She looked troubled.

"Glad you could make it. How's it hangin' B?" Her voice feigned lightheartedness; her eyes betrayed her worry. Buffy's nerves were stretched too thin to humor her.

"How long have you been here?"

"Couple of days. High-tailed it over soon as I heard."

"Why?"

Faith looked at her like she had three heads.

"L.A. went boom. I figured it had to be the big guy. Kinda his M.O. Not big on the subtle."

"And you hopped a flight to join in on the fun?"

It had come out harsher than she intended.

"Angel saves me. I save him. It's kinda how we work."

She said it with a simple certainty that struck Buffy to the core.

"And anyway," Faith continued, "I can't believe all you boneheads thought Angel had gone over to the dark side. He'd never do that, not unless he was Angelus again. And I personally watched him kick that sick freak's ass."

Buffy bristled. Despite the uneasy peace that the two slayers had found with one another since those last days in Sunnydale, the long-standing resentment Buffy felt towards Faith always lingered within her. Now, it smoldered with the intensity of the fire that had burned through L.A. Faith and Angel shared something, some unspoken understanding and likeness between them. Buffy had always hated that she couldn't be a part of it. But now it was even more than that. Faith had been inside Angel's mind, had been down in the deepest part of him, and that bound them forever. Buffy was afraid that when all was said and done, Faith now knew him better than she ever could.

"I didn't…Forget it. Doesn't matter now. What've you got?"

Faith shrugged.

"Not too much. Hit up ground zero. Somethin' scorchin' went down there, B. Big hole in the ground. Lots of bodies, not so much with the human. Paid some visits to the demon hot spots, but no one's talkin'. No one's seen Angel or his crew." She paused, not sure what else to say. "The Hyperion's still standing, somehow. I've been crashing there."

"So, if you've got nothing, why do you think that Angel…." She trailed off sadly.

A corner of Faith's mouth curled up in what was once her trademark grin.

"Didn't say nothin', said not too much. Check it out. There was something big in that carnage, real big. Just bits and pieces left of it now. But in all that mess, under it, I found this."

She reached into the knapsack at her side and pulled something out. It was filthy, covered in god-knows-what, torn to shreds, barely there. Buffy reached out and touched it with trembling fingers. The leather was still smooth. She could still feel his presence on it.

"His jacket?" she whispered. "But that doesn't mean…"

"Haven't gone on the hunt with you in a while, maybe you make 'em get naked before you stake 'em now, but hey, who am I to judge?" Faith quipped. Then, more seriously, "For real B, when was the last time you dusted a vamp and he left his clothes behind?"

Faith was right. But it only meant that he had _been_ alive at some point in the battle, not that he still was. It meant next to nothing.

"That's quite a leap Faith."

"Whatever B. Think what ya want. But if anyone found a way to survive that mess, you know it'd be him. If he got out, he's hiding somewhere, trying to avoid the Big Bad. We find him, he's got backup. We don't, he's dust."

And so it was settled. But they had nothing to go on, and nowhere to start. All they could do, was go back to the beginning.

***

The law offices of Wolfram and Hart stood large and dark and looming, a hollowed out shell that lay broken and ruined against the L.A. sky. It was hard to believe that this place had housed evil incarnate; even harder to believe that Angel had called it home. It stood now, teetering at the edge of some invisible precipice, and she imagined him tearing it down with his bare hands.

"You think we can check it out without the whole damn thing coming down on us?"

Buffy shrugged, heading for the entrance.

"I guess we'll find out."

They made their way through the gloom. An image of one of those old castles Giles loved so much came to view, pillaged and ransacked by some unholy crusade. She could make out the grandeur of what it had been before Angel decided to take on the Devil and made the Earth shake. It set her teeth on edge and made her Slayer-sense tingle. This place was still tied to Wolfram and Hart, and she could feel the extent of the rage that had rained down upon his head. Not for the first time, she wondered what he had faced, what he still faced, and shivered.

They made their way up, floor by floor, searching for signs of life, or unlife, or any clue as to what had happened here. It looked like someone had taken a giant sledgehammer to the place. But besides the wreckage, there was nothing.

They reached the executive floor. It seemed as if the brunt of the damage was here. Beams and walls and ceiling made up the rubble, floor slanted in defiance of gravity. There had been some sort of battle here. They checked Angel's office, or what was left of it. Despite the corporate trimmings, it felt like him. The stone wall adorned with rare weapons, something long and broad missing from the centre. The large mahogany desk, ancient and intricate, like him, yet strangely not out of place amongst its modern surroundings, also like him. As Faith rummaged through the remnants of the room, Buffy's eyes strayed to the massive windows, an incredible view of the singed city and the smog-filled sky. She pressed her fingers to the cool expanse in wonder.

"It must be some kind of special glass…"

She imagined how he had stood here and watched the sunrise break bright over the L.A. skyline, as she danced and slayed half a world away in the shadow of the moon. The irony of that wasn't lost on her. She thought about how his face would look in the sunlight and blinked rapidly, the idea so foreign and yet somehow achingly familiar. As if that beautiful sight had once been hers to behold.

Faith was banging on something, and Buffy turned toward the sound. Tucked into the corner of the room, elevator doors were on the receiving end of Faith's wrath.

"Dammit," she muttered in exasperation, fingers running fiercely through dark hair. "What do you wanna bet this leads up to his place?"

Buffy joined her. Together, they tried to pry the doors apart, slayer strength and urgency at fever pitch. And, for Buffy, a sudden overwhelming desire to be surrounded by him, the private things that he had owned and touched and made part of this strange new place he inhabited. If she could see and feel, maybe she could force the tether that bound them so intricately together to yank on him, wherever he was, and awaken within her the knowledge of where it lead. But it was no use. There was no way up, and they left the crumbling edifice on leaden legs and with heavy hearts.

***

When they got there, the place was immaculate, as if he had known he would never set foot here again. Everything was in its place. Two large boxes sat on the desk, seemingly expecting them.

"Didn't touch anything when I was here before," Faith offered. "Just saw no one had been here and figured I could grab the stuff later."

There was a strange sensation prickling at Faith's senses, the memory of being here with him jarring. She had been hurt then, and he had been almost… kind, even though he had every reason to despise the sight of her. Quiet, but full of strength and purpose.

_You have to be willing to take it all the way, Faith._

She had forced herself not to resent him for it, then. For pulling her out of the balance she had finally struck within herself, and reminding her that to catch a monster, she had to become one again. All the way. But she couldn't resent him now. Evidently, he himself had lived by that credo, maybe even died by it. It was still strange to think of Wes that way; Angel's steadfast lieutenant unto whatever end may have befallen them.

She watched as Buffy took in the small, neat apartment, full of ancient books and strange artifacts.

"Once a Watcher, always a Watcher."

Faith smirked.

"I guess. Last time I saw him, he was looking a bit…rugged."

"Are you trying to tell me that Wesley Wyndam-Price is now a hottie?" The disbelief was evident in her voice.

Faith shrugged, but Buffy could see it was an affirmation.

"And that is absolutely something I refuse to believe."

They investigated the boxes. The larger one held an assortment of weapons. They were practical, and some were the likes of which they had never seen before; Wes had obviously chosen those he deemed of the greatest value in battle. The other was full of journals, an extensive recording, as if there were still a Watcher's Council to account to. From this box, Buffy plucked out some envelopes and an unfolded sheaf of paper. There were three letters; one to Wes's parents, one to Giles, and one to Angel himself. That one had no postmark, no address, and Buffy felt a sliver of fear prick up her spine. The lone sheet also, was addressed to no one in particular. Clearly he had only hoped that someone would come, but had no real way of knowing that someone would.

The note gave the reader instructions on what should be done. Everything, except for the two letters, would go to Giles. He had no other possessions, no money to speak of, and no one left to whom to bequeath anything, even if there had been anything to bequeath. He hoped his former colleague could make sense of it all. The note also told them where he had gone.

***

They went to Vail's and found him. He lay in the expanse of the room, the wound in his abdomen telling the deadly tale. He had obviously been there for days. The two Slayers knelt in silent mourning over their former Watcher, then mumbled quiet apologies and Godspeeds. The arrangements had all been made, the note had told them, and they called the number, to impart where the body could be found. Then they left him, heads bowed with sadness and regret.

***

They headed for the Hyperion. Buffy decided she would call Giles and give him the news in a few hours, after they finished the reconnaissance for the day. They would drop off the boxes and Buffy's bag, then go back to the alley. The one that had looked like ground zero; the one where Faith had plucked his jacket from the ash.

The hotel was what she expected from him. She could see how he must have loved the main lobby, with its huge ceiling and vastness, the courtyard with the lush garden, now overgrown. She could picture him sitting there at night, broad shoulders hunched, the sketch pad in his hand illuminated by the rays of the moon. No one had been here in quite some time, but for some reason he had kept the place, and small tokens of the life he had led here remained. A coffee maker. Some books strewn across the shelves in the back office. A few weapons in the cabinet, arranged in a haphazard way that probably had him complaining endlessly. She could sense that he had been at home here, and felt both grateful and jealous for it. He had known a modicum of peace, and she hadn't been a part of it. She admonished herself for the thought. It didn't matter now. Whatever tenuous calm had existed for him had been ripped away, and wherever he found himself now, she was certain there was no peace or comfort.

***

She gasped when she saw the carnage. Nothing surprised her anymore, but whatever had happened here was massive. It was amazing that the city hadn't cleaned it up yet, but she of all people knew how humans could turn a blind eye when their worst nightmares threatened to breach their carefully constructed world. The block was littered with corpses, not human. She felt pride swell within her at how many demons he had slain. Faith motioned to her and she followed, coming to stand at the rim of a crater in the earth. It looked like a bomb had detonated here, but she knew it had been something much bigger, much worse. She could see a colossal carcass in the center. Bones and rotting flesh was all that was left now, but she could make out the glint of a dagger jutting out of one of the more meaty parts. This was where Faith had found his jacket. He had been alive, in this very spot. She looked around. Where would he go from here? If he had fought until dawn, where would he seek shelter from the sun's deadly rays?

They saw it at the same time, a little ways from where most of the battle had taken place. Of course…

"Sewers," they exclaimed simultaneously, running for the manhole cover, relieved that there was somewhere else to search. Buffy cursed herself silently. Angel would know these tunnels like the back of his hand, would necessarily have an access point from inside the Hyperion, would stalk L.A.'s underground streets in the harsh light of day before emerging skyward into the safety of the night. This should have been the first thing she thought of. Too much partying, not enough slayage of late. She wondered how many other things she'd overlooked because she had allowed the warm Roman sun to fry her brain and lull her into laxity.

Faith flipped up the manhole cover, and they headed down into the damp darkness, where only a vampire could hope to find refuge.


	3. Chapter 3 Remnants Of A Broken Life

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine.

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**Chapter 3~ Remnants Of A Broken Life**

"Have I mentioned how much I hate sewers?"

"What's the matter B? Don't like eau de la crap?" Faith snickered.

"Can I respond with an 'ew'?"

They had been wandering for a couple of hours, but there was no sign that anyone had passed through here. Except for the rats. So at least they knew Angel wasn't feeding off of them. Buffy wasn't sure if that was good, bad, or just plain weird, but it was something. Which was more than the big fat nothing they had so far.

"Angel must know every inch of these sewers. We don't even know where we're going, Faith," Buffy sighed. Every few minutes she dug deep and tried to feel him inside, tugging on that invisible cord, but it was useless. She couldn't feel his presence anywhere nearby.

"Well, our Slayer-sense has gotta help us out here, right?"

Buffy bit back the urge to explain to Faith the difference between her Slayer-sense and her Angel-sense. It didn't seem like either was much use as of late.

They had come to a spot where the tunnel split in two, and stopped to ponder their next course of action. They debated which proverbial fork of the road smelled worse, looked more filthy, afforded more shelter, and still couldn't come to a conclusion for which avenue to pursue. Their "discussion" had reached a fever pitch, when suddenly, Buffy held up her hand.

"Shhh. Do you hear that?"

Sure enough, in the ensuing silence, they heard it: a faint echo of footsteps from the leftmost tunnel. Faith leaned in to whisper in Buffy's ear.

"I'll go check it out. You hang back here. I'll holler if I need an extra stake."

Buffy's mouth tightened in frustration, but she didn't argue. After all, Faith had been the one guarding a Hellmouth for the last year, while Buffy had… most definitely been not. Lithe and silent as a cat, Faith moved along the side of the tunnel. Long moments passed in silence, and then, the unmistakable sounds of a struggle could be heard. Faith would give her a signal if she needed help, so for the time being Buffy stepped back to conceal herself in the shadows. The struggle came closer. Suddenly, a shape flew out of the tunnel entrance, landing in the sewage with a curse. Just as Faith leapt after it, a leg swung out to catch her by the shins and she went down. The attacker was on his feet faster than Buffy would have thought possible, but so was Faith, reaching out and kicking with a booted foot. He swung away from the kick, and despite his small size and slim build, Buffy thought that there was something familiar in the graceful movement. She began to maneuver herself into position behind the figure, giving Faith time to handle this on her own.

Faith lashed out with her elbow, catching her attacker square in the jaw. But he was fast, catching her fist as it flew towards him for a double whammy, twisting her arm sharply enough to make her gasp. She kicked out again, this time hearing a grunt of pain, and smiled with satisfaction. He struck out with his fist, but she parried with her left hand, as her right clenched security around his throat and pushed him back into the slick stone wall.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to be nice to girls?" she snarled.

The attacker struggled against Faith's grasp, then stilled with a startled wheeze.

"Faith?"

It came out as a croak, considering she was crushing his larynx, but it was unmistakable.

He knew her name.

Faith loosened her hold just enough to let him speak. Buffy came closer, and his gaze flickered to her in confusion. She tried to make out his features in the dim light. He was definitely human. And very young.

Faith's eyes narrowed, her body still tense, muscles rigid.

"I know you, kid?"

"You did…I mean…" he stammered, not knowing how to explain the unexplainable. "You don't remember me, but I remember you. I remember you helping Angel."

Buffy froze, breath catching in her throat at the sound of the name. Faith's eyes narrowed further, tiny slits now. Her lip twitched.

"What the hell do you mean, _I don't remember you_? Who are you?"

The boy hesitated, blue eyes uncertain.

"I'm Connor." He paused, seemingly struggling with himself. The decision, when he made it, came almost instinctually. "I'm Angel's son."

***

"Whose what now?"

It couldn't have been more shocking if he had told them that he was Jesus Christ himself. And it would probably have been more likely.

"You are aware that vampires can't have children?" Faith asked as she released him from her grip.

"Yeah, thanks, because I haven't heard that one before," he grumbled, rubbing his neck. "I know they can't and you know they can't, yet here I am. In a sewer, getting my ass kicked on account of it."

Buffy was still rooted to the spot. If this was a joke, it was even less funny than the time Xander offered to build her a bomb-shelter for her next birthday. (Although, with her track record, the idea wasn't a totally ridiculous one.) It was impossible… yet… could it be the truth? Defying every natural and unnatural law of the dimensions? That was something she had some experience with, had broken more than one of those laws herself. Why should she expect that exceptions applied only to her?

Angel's son. Of all the strange and unfathomable things she'd seen in her life, nightmares that roamed and ravaged the earth, things that couldn't possibly exist in the light of day, this seemed the strangest and most unfathomable of all. Angel had a son. An evidently-not-too-far-off-from-her-own-age son. And he had never told her.

But Connor did. He told the two women everything. Everything he had pieced together at least. He told them about Darla, about his miraculous birth, Holtz, his abduction, Quortoth, his return three months later as a sixteen year old boy hell bent on revenge that was based on a lie. He told them how he betrayed Angel, and how Angel saved him. He told them about the last words he had heard his father speak.

_Go home...now. _

_They'll destroy you. _

_As long as you're OK, they can't. Go._

"I did what he said. But I couldn't… I couldn't stay away." He looked down, not able to meet either woman's gaze. "I felt like it was my fault. It _was _my fault. He was there because of me. Wolfram and Hart was the price he paid so that I could have a normal life."

The reality was overwhelming; a tidal wave coursing through her, flooding her senses, washing away the lies she had taken for truths. But the catalyst for Angel's (albeit fake) defection to the opposing team finally made sense. He had sacrificed himself for a son who had betrayed him. A son he loved. The big, fat, cosmic joke of it broke her heart for him all over again. Why was he forever destined to walk away from those who mattered the most?

"You been lookin' for him?" Even Faith looked moved.

Connor nodded.

"Anything?"

He shook his head sadly. "But I don't think he's….gone. I can't explain it, but… I can still feel him. If he was dusted, I would know. I would know… in my blood."

Something stirred inside of her. And in a strange way, even though she had only just met him, she felt a connection to Angel's son. When she spoke, Buffy's voice held the first unflinching certainty she had felt in days.

"So would I."

***

There would be no more searching tonight. No slaying either. Tired and filthy, more deeply than just on the outside, they made their way back to the Hyperion. Connor headed off to the dingy motel he had occupied, promising to gather his belongings and return. Buffy was loathe to see him go, even for the time being, the questions effervescing in her chest like so many champagne bubbles struggling towards air. The questions could wait, she knew, and the intensity of her attachment to this boy confused her a little. She was cognizant of the fact that when she looked at Connor, she saw his father, and felt the feather- touch of Angel's soul sweep along the borders of her consciousness. And, although he was quite obviously enamored with Faith, he too seemed affected by Buffy's presence. She wondered if maybe some of her own blood ran through Connor's veins, as if Angel had passed onto his son the life force she had so freely given him.

The boxes sat in the lobby, waiting. Faith, cursing softly, retreated to the sanctity of the shower, her shoes making that wet sloshing sound all the way upstairs. Buffy's eyes, weary from the long days of worry and fruitless action, fixated on Wes's bequeathed journals. There were too many, the writing flowing from the pages in an endless river of words, the litany of_ translations/texts/events_ making her head swim. She had never been the research type, not like Giles or Willow, and now regretted that she'd never developed the patience for it. The waiting and uncertainty had stretched her nerves raw, the desire to leap into action making her muscles twitch even as they ached. So she did the very thing any good Slayer could do when faced with such a predicament. She called her ex-Watcher.

"Buffy, have you any idea what time it is?" Irritation flittered through his voice, but the concern lingered.

"Oh please, Giles. Like you sleep. You're probably translating some ancient demonic text as we speak."

"Sumerian, actually." He smiled. His Slayer knew him too well.

She filled him in on the day, and the strange unbidden revelations it had brought. He sputtered and nearly choked on his tea when she told him about Connor. When she told him about Wesley, a long silence stretched between them. Finally, respect for the dead acknowledged, Giles cleared his throat and spoke.

"You know Buffy, perhaps his journals could shed some light on—"

"Already tried Giles. Not my gig. You're gonna have to decipher them."

"Perhaps the letter then?" If she mailed it, it would take quite a few days to reach him. Days they couldn't afford to waste. "Do you think you could manage reading it to me without lapsing into a catatonic state?"

Buffy scowled, but had learned many years ago that Giles' impatience with her shortcomings only reared its ugly head when he was under extreme stress.

"Well," she jabbed lightly, "if _someone_ wasn't such an old fogey and would at least get a fax machine, we wouldn't run into these problems, now would we?"

"Duly noted. Now would you be so kind as to read the letter?"

***

She read. Every so often, she would slow down to hear Giles writing furiously. Wesley had provided a highly condensed record of all that had transpired in L.A. since Angel settled there, but even the Cliff's Notes version astonished her. She wondered, with all that had happened, how Angel always let her lean on him without sharing his woes in return. How he had sat and comforted her by her mother's grave while battling his own inner demons. She had never before realized how much of a struggle it really was.

Wesley's account of the Darla/Conner situation was much more coherent than Conner's had been, and she wondered briefly if Angel had told her about it before he had all the memories erased. Strangely, it seemed very important to have an answer to that question.

She read about all the things Angel had seen and done and thought how he had been when he brought her the amulet, seemingly unaffected by it all. She wondered what strength it had taken him to flirt with her and pretend like everything was alright, when he had just lost Conner and Cordelia, and signed himself over to Wolfram and Hart. She wondered how much that had truly cost him. But she continued to read, her voice unfaltering. She had nearly reached the end, and she stumbled over the strange word when she got to it. Shanshu.

"Oh great," she groaned. "Another prophecy."


	4. Chapter 4 Titans

**Chapter 4~ Titans**

Her shock was matched by silence from the other side of the ocean. Finally, Giles cleared his throat.

"Well then."

She could practically hear him cleaning his glasses.

"Well," he started again. "This is certainly an interesting development."

"Understate much?"

"Angel human."

"Yeah. He's a regular Pinocchio."

"And he really never told you?"

"He really never did."

They let that thread of the conversation slither away. He was still trying to reach Willow, and softly admonished the limitations of astral projection. She understood. He was a Watcher (an ex-Watcher at that), not a wizard, and couldn't be expected to keep everything afloat on his own. He had enlisted the Coven, and assurances had been given that contact was imminent. For the time being, there was nothing left to discuss. Neither mentioned the familiarity of their predicament; frantically pooling every resource because of the ironic and maudlin connection between a slayer and a vampire. This time was very different, to be sure. And yet the memory, dulled with time but still sharp and bitter, hung like a thick fog between the two continents.

***

She headed up the staircase to the second floor, instinctively knowing which room he would have chosen. She smiled as the door creaked open. Leave it to Angel to call the honeymoon suite home sweet home. It would be hard to fault him though; it was spacious enough that it probably helped soothe the ache he'd inevitably feel at his limited daytime mobility. She remembered how he often felt cooped up and useless in the long hours before sunset, sleeping more out of irritation at his entrapment than any real need.

There was an intimacy in being here, even though he had left only a few effects behind. A brief survey revealed some books in languages she could only guess at, a few stakes fitted into some sort of metal contraption, a sketch pad gathering dust on the nightstand. She touched it almost reverently, tracing her fingers along its length and imagining his hand covering hers. Flipping through it, she marveled again at the talent she had learned of so painfully all those years ago. There were some landscapes, an old cathedral, Connor, both as an infant and a young man. There was a drawing of her, sitting in the solarium of the mansion in Sunnydale, and her breath caught in her throat at the love with which his elegant fingers had drawn the curves of her face. Had she ever been that young, that beautiful? She didn't even recognize that girl anymore, and yet it was how he remembered her. An uncharacteristic blush creeping into her cheeks, she turned the page, and the warmth that was seeping through her belly suddenly dissipated. Chest constricting painfully, she stared at Cordelia's face.

It didn't look like the vain, shallow girl Buffy had known. Her hair was cropped short, that blinding ear-to-ear grin splitting her face. But the features were softer, her eyes warm and filled with understanding. Angel had depicted her with grace, each line perfectly, lovingly drawn. Had he loved Cordelia? It was something she wasn't ready to think about. It was ridiculous, disturbing, to be jealous of a dead woman. And yet here it was, the evidence of Cordy's place in Angel's life. In Angel's heart. Even his closet bore the imprint of her touch, the few clothes that remained too brightly colored to have been chosen without her prodding. Buffy closed the sketch pad, suddenly feeling the need to scrub herself raw.

Shedding her clothing and stepping into the bathtub, she willed herself to keep away from thoughts of Angel and Cordelia, and what may have lain between them. There were more important things to think about now, things that, in theory, should bother her more. Angel had been quite the busy vampire keeping all kinds of secrets, but this one took the cake.

He had never told her about the Shanshu.

The one thing that she had dreamt of for years was possible, and he had never shared that possibility with her. As the warm spray of water soothed her aching muscles, the twinge of anger ebbed away and was replaced by something wholly unexpected. Empathy. Understanding. _Gratitude. _

Her own words drifted back to her.

_It'll be a long time coming. Years, if ever._

And his velvet tone, voice dancing as he walked away, face half hidden in darkness.

_I ain't getting any older._

He knew then about the promise of humanity. Could have told her. Who knows, maybe she would have reconsidered the whole concept of baking. Maybe she would have come to him after the Sunnydale Hellmouth was officially closed for business.

But what would he have said?

_Guess what? Someday, if I save the world enough times, I can be a real boy! Wanna forget the agony of the last seven years, and bet our lives on yet another prophecy?_

The absurdity of the whole thing aside, Angel would never have lured her back into his life with that bait. How could he? Hedidn't know when, if ever, his Shanshu would come. It may not even be in her lifetime. There would be no point in telling her, giving her ideas of something that may never be. She understood that. Didn't mean it didn't hurt. She wondered if anything more than an irrational hope for something that he probably only half believed in had sustained him through the dark, lonely years. Buffy was suddenly very glad he had spared her that, the attachment and waiting and hope for something she may never live to see. And there was something else too, beneath it, something that, until this very moment, she could not have known.

It no longer mattered.

For long torturous years, she had wished and dreamt of him becoming human, of walking with him in the sunlight, of picnics and children and a normal life. It was what allowed her to understand why he had walked away, even as her heart was being ripped in two. He wanted her to have all that. But not with him. She could never have it with him. And now, it was possible, and she found to her great surprise that it wasn't what she wanted.

She wasn't sixteen anymore. She saw the world for what it was. She knew the darkness she had been forged in, the darkness that she kept at bay and Faith welcomed with open arms. _Slayer_. It was his darkness that beckoned to that part of her, just as his soul stirred the woman. As she was both, woman and slayer, light and darkness, so was he, demon and soul forever entwined to create the most beautiful being she had ever known. She would not change that about him; not for all the sunshine or picnics or normalcy in the world. And as the truth of the realization hit her with the force of a locomotive, she sank to her knees and wept, the spray of water mingling with the wetness on her cheeks.

***

She stood at his closet, hair still damp, and stared at the pieces of clothing as if she could will him to inhabit them. Her fingers traveled over the cloth, over the last remnants of him. She wondered how long it had been since he'd last set foot in this place, why he still bothered to keep the clothes here at all. In the end, her hand stilled and settled, pulling the shirt from its hanger. It was very similar to the one he had worn that day in Sunnydale, the last time that she had seen him. She wrapped the fabric around herself and curled up on the bed, breathing him in. Cloaked in the only essence of him that remained, she slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

* * *

_His roar, anguished and feral, can cut through bone. The jagged rock scrapes at his bare back, even as the muscles tense and cord while straining against the chains that bind him. Angry welts map out the torture his naked body has endured, the flawless marble of his skin bleeding crimson. He is alone on this ledge, but other cries drift up to meet his ears, and he knows that he is not alone in his anguish. _

_A bright light splits across the rusty dusk that surrounds him, tearing a hole in the sky. He can feel more than see what has entered through that tear, as he has felt it countless times through the countless moments he has been shackled here. It circles above him, around him, descending, the torrent of foul wind from its black feathered wings doing nothing to calm the burning that torments his body. As it approaches, black beak and blacker eyes fix on him with their intent. He steels himself for the onslaught of shredded flesh and eviscerated torso, and yet, as always, cannot avoid the agony of that first assault. The daily feast begins with relish, and he can smell the coppery tang of blood, the pain of his own hunger now warring with the pain of being fed on by the beast. _

_Through the haze that engulfs him, he struggles to remember the reason for this punishment. Had he stolen fire from the Gods? No. He had merely snatched the human race from the claws of Hell and Damnation. And that makes this wrong, because he is not Prometheus but Atlas, the weight of the world resting on his blood-stained shoulders. And then conscious thought is chased away by the flapping wings and the sharpened talons, and there is nothing left but pain raging hot as fire. Only he will not die, but will be reborn to suffering, again and again, through all eternity. The muscles in his neck stretch taut as he screams again, but he retains his human face, even now wrestling with the demon within. And he hears the reverberations echo endlessly in his ears, ringing and ringing and ringing…_

_

* * *

  
_

Buffy awoke in a tangle of sheets and sweat, gasping for air that felt like ash in her lungs. She was trembling, eyes unfocused, and for long moments her brain couldn't comprehend where she was or _who_ she was. When her breathing and heart rate finally slowed, she stifled a sob and fought back the bile that was rising in her throat. It was just a dream. Not even a slayer dream, just a regular run-of-mill nightmare. She mentally smacked herself on the head for letting Dawn talk her into reading all that Greek mythology. That couldn't possibly be where he was, what he was going through….

The ringing. She could still hear it. She scrambled for her phone on the bedside table, knocking it over in her haste. Swearing softly, she snatched it up off the floor, hoping that the caller was still there.

"Hello?"

"Hiya," came the familiar voice.

"Willow?"

"At your service," a short pause. "I'm so sorry Buffy. It took Giles forever to get in touch with me. Getting a message across to another plane is like trying to find a decent price for salamander eyes in England. I mean really! The whole point of salamander eyes is that they're cheaper than newt's eyes, so if they're going to charge you—"

"Will…"

"Oh, right, sorry."

"Giles fill you in?"

"You know Giles, no detail too obscure. So… big whoops on the whole 'evil is as evil does' attitude, huh? I feel terrible, Buffy."

"Yeah, well, you can apologize if we find him."

"Um, about that."

"Whats the what?" Despite the bravado, there was a knot tying itself in the pit of her stomach, tighter and tighter until the weight of it made her sag against the bed.

"I have good news and bad news."

"Will, spill it!"

"The good news is I know where he is."

The knot released just enough so that she could suck in a ragged breath, only to tighten again in fear and anticipation.

"And the bad?"

"Where he is."


	5. Chapter 5 Destination: Déjà Vu

**Disclaimer: **No copyright infringement, blah blah blah

* * *

**Chapter 5- Destination: Déjà vu**

"What's with the cryptic?"

The image of him chained to a boulder getting his organs torn out by a giant beastie was suddenly imprinted on her retinas.

"Don't freak out."

"Just spit it out Willow!"

"He's in a Hell dimension."

The memories were never buried deeply enough, simmering just under the surface of the years that followed. She could trace the life she forever lost to that moment—

_The taste of his tears… the confusion in those warm brown eyes, the trust…the sword in her hand… no choice… Oh God!_

"Is it… Acathla?"

"No, no, nothing like that. As far as I can tell, it's one of those dimensions Wolfram and Hart keeps under wraps for their own little special projects."

"So, is it too much to hope that we can bust in there and get him out without being noticed?" She desperately tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

Willow sighed. "Definitely too much to hope. It's not easy to breach a Hell dimension under any circumstances, and this…"

"Willow."

The Slayer within had heard the call to action, and now that the initial shock had receded her whole body twitched in anticipation.

"I may have cooked up something of a plan." She heard the proud smile in her friend's voice.

"Great. How fast can you astro-pro-whatsit yourself over here?"

"I can't go with you Buffy. Wolfram and Hart has got some serious mojo working overtime to keep that dimension sealed. I need to stay here to make sure you can get in and out safely."

"So we're sans witchy power and back to fighting a Hell army the old-fashioned way? Break out the straight-jacket Will, because I just had the insane thought that Faith being here is of the good."

"Now you girls play nice, or I'll sic Giles on you."

Silence reigned for a few moments, weighty with implication of dangers to come. It was Buffy that broke it.

"How— how'd you find him?"

"A witch never tells her secrets." The redhead was quiet for a moment. "He's a little worse for wear Buffy, but we have some time. They'll be ok for now."

She must be hearing things.

"_They_? As in, the third person pronoun used to indicate more than one individual?"

There was a chuckle on the other end of the world.

"Yeah. That's the fun part. He's not alone."

***

"He's _where_?"

Faith seemed equal parts worried, equal parts amused. Buffy rolled her eyes.

"A Hell dimension, Faith."

"Figures. You don't suppose he coulda said 'no thanks, been there, done that'?"

Connor snorted beside her, and Buffy shot them both a death glare. Faith glared back mockingly.

"Chill out B. We know he's ok. And hey, look on the bright side. At least you didn't send him there this time."

Connor took a step toward her, blue eyes wide with shock.

"_You're_ the ex that sent him to Hell for a hundred years? Way harsh."

Buffy suddenly felt pretty defensive, not to mention angry at having one of the most painful moments of her life discussed like this.

"I thought you said you've met Angelus," she said pointedly. And then, without thinking, added, "Angel told you about that?"

Connor appraised Buffy with a newfound respect.

"He mentioned it. Didn't realize you were the girlfriend."

He looked between Buffy and Faith, and a smile crept to his lips.

"So, um, what's his deal with slayers?"

Buffy kept quiet, the line of her mouth rigid with unspoken words. She certainly wasn't going to discuss this with him if Angel hadn't. There were things she still couldn't explain completely, even to herself. Faith nudged her lightly and winked.

"You know the deal, kid. Big love, big loss. Touching story, really."

She risked a glance at Buffy again, and her look was infused with wry understanding.

"Me, I'm just in it for the irony."

Confusion filtered across Connor's face.

"'Cause of the whole, vampire slayers being friends with a vampire thing?"

Faith moved closer, face level with his, and there was no humor in her words now.

"No. 'Cause of the whole, me trying to kill him more than once and him saving my life thing. I owe him, more than I can ever repay."

She leaned in even further, punctuating with physicality the gravity of her words.

"You and me kid?" she whispered, motioning between them, "Not so different."

She held his bewildered gaze steadily and then stepped away, turning to Buffy. For a moment, before Faith could hide it, Buffy saw and recognized the look in the dark eyes of her sister slayer. Angel had saved Faith, life and soul, and she would lay down that life for him if she had to. Buffy teetered, briefly, on the brink between resentment for that connection, and relief that Faith had diverted the topic away from where it had been heading. The leader in her won the momentary battle over the woman. There would come a time for thought and introspection later. She had done too much of it already. Now, they needed to be ready for what lay ahead.

She laid out Willow's plan.

***

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean _no_, with a capital N-O. You're not going."

"You can't tell me what to do. I grew up in a Hell dimension, Buffy. Don't see anyone else around here who can claim the same."

She sighed, exasperated.

"Do you realize what'll happen if I let you come? Do you? Giles is gonna have to send a rescue party for the rescue party! And do you know why? Because if the demons don' t wring my neck, Angel will!"

"I thought you were all 'I am Slayer, hear me roar'. You're telling me Angel scares you?"

"What scares me is the thought of dealing with him whining. And it should scare you too."

In the end, after arguing about it for over an hour, they were still at an impasse. Finally, seeing that the kid was not going to back down, Buffy relented.

"God, stubborn much?"

She heard Faith chuckle. "Just like dear old dad."

***

This was the part she hated. The waiting and planning part. Couldn't she just chant some incantation, open a damn portal, pull a smash n' grab, and kick her way back out? She knew it didn't work that way. Buffy hated these types of situations, where her innate power and instincts weren't enough. She reminded herself that rescuing ensouled vampires trapped in Hell dimensions by evil law firms wasn't exactly the type of thing slayers were created for.

She busied herself with weapons and training while waiting for Willow's package to arrive. Wes had left them some interesting things to choose from, but she had her own preferences. When she joined Faith and Connor in the basement, Faith laughed with amazement.

"I don't believe it. How'd you manage to get that into the country?"

Buffy smiled, comforted and emboldened by the familiar wave of power as her fingers curled around the scythe.

"Same way I got it out in the first place."

She shrugged mildly.

"Standard cloaking spell. Or so Dawn tells me." Her voice swelled with pride. "Willow's rubbed off on her. A lot."

Faith quirked an eyebrow.

"She's not dating a werewolf, is she?"

"What? No!" Buffy suddenly felt like she had a whole new realm of possibilities to worry about. She made a quick call to her sister.

***

Buffy's elbow smashed into Connor's ribs.

"Hey!"

"Don't 'hey' me buddy! Never leave yourself open like that."

Faith chuckled from her vantage point on the steps.

"Sucker for that elbow, aren't ya kid? Maybe if you focused on her arms instead of her a—"

"Ooof." Buffy landed hard on that particular part of her anatomy as he kicked her legs out from under her.

"He trained me you know." He laughed as he held out a hand to help her up. She flipped her legs into the air and landed on her feet with barely a sound, swinging her staff on the way.

"Can tell." Her staff met his with a clatter as he blocked. "I kicked _his _butt too."

"Not on my account, I hope," Faith offered helpfully, as Buffy swung the staff in a 360 degree arc and bounced it off Connor's head.

"Ow!"

Thrust, parry, swing, clash. She had to admit it, the kid was good. Fast. Almost as graceful as his father. She nearly blushed at the memory of Angel, clad in drawstring pants and one of those form-fitting sleeveless shirts he loved (she loved them too), circling her dangerously as they sparred. Those training sessions had usually ended with one of them on top of the other…

"Ouch!"

Connor's fist struck her painfully in the solar plexus. _Good one Buffy, fantasize while training. That'll help._

"Getting past your slaying prime B?"

"Doing a lot of talking for being the one sitting on your ass F."

"Ready to tap me in?"

Buffy jumped in the air, clearing the staff as it arced toward her shins. "Keep dreaming."

"Yeah. You could use the practice."

Connor stopped in mid-thrust. "Do you two always talk this much?"

They changed weapons soon after, scythe versus sword, and Connor seemed much happier with this. Faith was restless, as always, so Buffy sat out to let her have a turn. Connor was even more pleased with that arrangement. They fought hand to hand, each taking as good as they got, Connor leaping off walls and getting in hits admirably. Finally, Faith managed to pin him to the wall with an iron grip on his neck, the same maneuver with which she had incapacitated him in the sewer. She grinned as she released him.

"You gotta watch your neck kid." She winked. "Especially around vampires."

***

They spent most of the day sparring. Buffy knew they were all more than ready to launch into action, and the frustration of waiting was only slightly alleviated by this release. When they finally stopped, she welcomed the exhaustion that had settled in her bones. Faith left on the hunt, not for vampires, but for booze and cigarettes, and Buffy recognized the tension that reflected her own in the hard set of her friend's shoulders.

_Friend? Where had that come from?_ She hadn't thought of Faith that way in a very long time. In fact, for most of the time she had known her, her darker half had resided squarely in the 'enemy' box. She shook her head with wonder. All those years ago, it had been Angel who had seen Faith for what she was, and had helped to bring it to light. It was only fitting that now he would be the one to bring them back together.

***

Buffy sat on the divan in the lobby, Wes's journals at her feet, and stared at the entry before her. They had returned, happy and triumphant after a great adventure, to the greeting of Willow's somber face. Without a word, Angel had known. She read about how he had locked himself in his room and screamed, not letting anyone come near him for days. How he had traveled to Sunnydale to visit her grave and then sequestered himself in a monastery somewhere in Sri Lanka, not to be seen again for three months. He had never told her in words what he had gone through when they met, so briefly, after her resurrection. She had seen it in his eyes, as clearly as she saw it now, written in Wes's meticulous hand. She wondered, if the positions were reversed, how long she would scream.

"I see the lurky acorn didn't fall far from the tree."

She felt him shift uncomfortably behind her, but received no response. Putting the journal aside, she tried again.

"Are you just gonna stand there channeling a statue, or do you want to come and sit?"

He shuffled forward, eyeing her almost warily for a moment, before joining her on the divan. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"I see Angel taught you the fine arts of lurking _and _skulking. Both very important lessons."

Connor laughed softly.

"So, you think I'm like him?"

"Yes. And no. But… I feel him in you."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Did you know my mother?"

Buffy stiffened at the memory of Darla. Did Connor even really understand what he was asking?

"Yes."

"Was she as evil as everyone said?"

"Angel told you that?"

"No. He didn't really talk about her. He let it slip that he killed her once. And then she came back…. He only said that she loved me, but if she was evil how could she?"

Buffy tried to choose her words wisely.

"Look, Connor, I don't really know anything about how Darla was when she came back."

"But you knew her before…Do you know why he killed her?"

Buffy considered his question, weighed the options, settled on the truth.

"To protect me."

If the information affected him, he didn't show it.

"Because he loved you."

It was a statement, not a question. She nodded.

"Can you….Do you think you can tell me about it? About the two of you? I'd really like to understand."

She was about to say that she didn't want to talk about it. But he regarded her with those curious eyes, and he felt so much like Angel, that she thought maybe she _did_ want to talk about it. So she told him. And as the words flowed, she found that they had a distant quality, as if it weren't her life at all but someone else's. Like it was some other girl whose heart beat for the undead and then broke for him, some other girl who had wanted nothing more in her whole life than forever with a vampire.

After she was finished, they sat together quietly for what seemed like a very long time. And then, because at that moment there was nothing she could do to comfort Angel, she wanted to comfort his son.

"If there's one thing I knew about Darla, Connor, it's that she would do anything to survive. And I mean anything." She paused to let the words sink in. "She loved you. She must have. She staked herself so you could live."

When Connor spoke, she could almost hear Angel's voice.

"Thank you, Buffy."

He got up and walked towards the staircase, then hesitated, considering something. He turned to face her again.

"Do you still love him?"

She remained silent, with a far off look on her face, so he left her to her thoughts. If he weren't the son of two vampires he never would have heard her soft sigh, as if she were finally answering a question she had been asking herself for a long time. But he was the son of two vampires, so he did hear.

"Always."

***

Willow's self-referred "box o' fun" manifested in the lobby the following morning, and only slayer speed prevented Buffy from ending up sprawled on the floor on its account. Each one of the strange assortment of items was carefully labeled with a post-it, and Buffy smiled at the thought of how nervous her friend must be at giving a written lesson on the hocus-pocus that would be carried out without her. It was dangerous territory for all of them. The ingredients for the Bu'shundi ritual, which would allow them to pinpoint Angel's location anywhere in the dimension once they were there, were thoroughly wrapped, and she hoped that nothing too important was breakable. Anything fragile she may have in her pockets rarely survived the heat of battle. She pulled out a curious looking object that resembled a miniature sundial, along with a pouch of yellow powder that smelled ancient and mossy. _Interdimensional clock, courtesy of Giles_, was the cheerful message. Although there was no way to know how time traveled in other dimensions, this would allow them to keep track of the time of day in L.A. Faith appraised the object appreciatively.

"Way to go Giles," she commented. "It'd hardly be worth the effort to drag his butt back here if he went all pillar of fire on us 'cause, whoops, middle of the day."

They sifted through the rest of the items. And then they found it, encased securely within a spell-protected capsule; the most important item in the parcel, and one without which they had no chance of success. It was the main ingredient for opening the portal. Buffy tucked the capsule securely in her pocket, mentally thanking Willow for the mystically protective shell. As she read the accompanying incantation, she found herself thanking her friend a second time. It was in English. If they had been forced to rely on Buffy's Latin, there would have been a better chance of Angel sprouting wings and flying back to L.A. than their mission getting past the first step.

Between the three of them, they pocketed the miscellaneous needed items. Buffy called Dawn, just in case, and Connor assured his parents that the 'medical missions trip' he had joined was going well. Faith watched them from the doorway, trying to remember how many months had passed since Robin had been around to care where she went,no sign on her face to betray the sting in her heart at having no one to call.

***

They returned to the hole in the earth. It was where the first portal had opened, and Willow assured them that the energy was still strong. It was just a matter of her and the Coven creating enough of a distraction for Wolfram and Hart to be caught with their guard down. As Connor's eyes perused the lingering carnage, Buffy tried to attune her senses for the best spot to begin.

"Cool!"

Both slayers turned at Connor's exclamation. He stood next to the giant carcass that had preserved Angel's jacket, alarmingly close considering the foul stench.

"What? And— gross." Buffy motioned for the boy to step back.

His eyes were ablaze with unparalleled excitement.

"You guys know this is a dragon, right?"

Faith circled the thing and piped up from the other side.

"Junior's right. Big-ass dragon tail and everything."

Buffy pouted. She hadn't noticed it before, but it was most certainly a dragon. Angel had slain a dragon.

She was very, very jealous.

"Stupid boys and your stupid dragons," she muttered as they congregated in the center of the crater. "I killed a Hellhound with my bare hands once," she offered hopefully. Faith shook her head and Buffy scrunched her face in defeat. It didn't really compare.

They arranged the herbs in a circle around them and lit the candles. Buffy took a deep breath, centering herself, stilling the tremor of excitement she always felt in anticipation of battle.

"You guys ready?"

Faith glanced at Connor wryly.

"Why do I get the feelin' we're gonna have one pissed of big daddy vampire on our hands?"

Conner smirked, shrugged, hefted his weapon.

"He'll get over it."

Buffy spared one final glance at her companions.

"Down the rabbit hole."

She began to recite the words.


	6. Chapter 6 Into The Dark

**Disclaimer: **I do not own.

* * *

**Chapter 6 ~ Into The Dark**

He sat in darkness, snared in a trap of his own making. He wasn't sure how long he had been here; the lack of a sun had been a mixed blessing. There was no danger of him bursting into flames, but his own internal clock couldn't quite grapple with the eternal reddish dusk.

This wasn't the same kind of Hell he had survived before. That one had been all fire and brimstone, and cages and torture and other unnameable things that he would never speak of. He remembered the smell of his own burning flesh. This was different. He wondered, not without irony, if this is what Quortoth had been like.

Illyria had been wrong. It had taken Gunn twenty minutes to perish, battle axe still at the ready, a warrior's cry escaping his lips. He had fallen, savaged by demons, a hero's death. Angel had slain the dragon, clinging onto the beast's back, his dagger sunk deep into the tender flesh on the underside of its neck. And then the earth had swallowed him whole.

He looked over at his remaining companions. Spike leaned against the rock face, thoughtfully rolling what appeared to be his last cigarette between his fingers. His clothes were torn, face streaked with grime and blood. At least he had managed to preserve his coveted trench coat. The new one, the one he had been given in Rome when they had run off, half-cocked, to save _her_, like she was some helpless damsel in distress when she had never really been much with the damselling. Illyria stood stock still at the entrance to the cave, neck craned to the side like some predatory bird, her cold blue eyes scanning the horizon. This was a momentary reprieve, and they all knew it. Soon, the demons would pick up the trail and swarm again, scaling the treacherous cliffs to reach them. It would never be finished, that much he could be sure of. The demons would continue to come, until the three of them could no longer fight. And then… Then the Senior Partners would come up with some other way to continue this sick little game they were playing. They wouldn't kill him; that would be too easy. Instead, they would make it so he would welcome death. He had been too good a monster for far too long not to know how this worked. It would be centuries of torture for him, centuries of punishment for his coup in L.A. He wondered sourly if he would share a cage with Spike. That would be punishment in and of itself.

He gazed out at the ashy landscape, barren save for the demon corpses they had left behind, and the fresh hordes gathering in the distance. In his mind's eye, he saw Cordy, face beautiful even in death, on the day they had buried her. Wes, lying lifeless on Vail's cold marble floor. Gunn, intestines splattered on the earth behind the Hyperion, lost under a heap of demons. Illyria's granite stare from beneath the soft contours of Fred's familiar face. He had done it to them, as surely as if he had cut them down himself. He had doomed them all. Yes, he would wish for death. He already wished for it.

"The hordes gather," Illyria said. "We will not last much longer."

She moved to stand by Spike in the shadows.

"Bloody hell," he spat. "We know it, you twit. Stop saying it."

He turned to Angel.

"How long you reckon they'll keep toying with us?"

"As long as they want, Spike."

Turning away from the entrance, Angel melted further into the shadows of the cave. He'd seen enough. He couldn't grieve for his family, not yet. There was still work to be done. Later, when he would be strung up and tortured, when things were done to him that would make Angelus chuckle with delight from within, he would think of their faces and know he deserved the pain. Later, it would help keep him from breaking, and keep the Senior Partners from getting what they wanted from him. But right now, he needed to rest a little. His body was bruised and battered, one arm a mangled mess from dragon's claws, chest and torso covered in gashes and stabs from an assortment of weapons. He lamented the loss of is favorite jacket. At least he still had the broadsword.

They would rest a bit longer, he thought, and then move to higher ground. It was pointless, really, but they needed to avoid being trapped here. The more demons they could take out, the better. More would always come, but they couldn't stop fighting. Maybe he'd get lucky and be staked before they could capture him. It was more than he deserved. He looked at Spike, wishing charitably that his brother in fang would meet a merciful fate. For a moment, something unspoken seemed to pass between them. Then Spike's eyes narrowed, gaze shifted to somewhere beyond Angel's shoulder, and his face took on an expression of utter confusion and disbelief.

"Spike, what…"

He heard it before he could even turn completely, heard a voice that he'd know anywhere but would never, _could _never hear again.

"I can't believe you got to slay a dragon and didn't invite me!"

***

Angel stared at the hallucination in utter shock. He was sure he'd gone insane from grief and blood hunger. And yet, Spike seemed to share his madness.

"Slayer?"

So, not a hallucination. A trick. It was just another trick, courtesy of the Senior Partners.

"Hi Buffy, nice to see you. Thanks for coming to rescue my sorry ass," the apparition said as it came toward him. It certainly talked like her. "Geez Angel, one little trip to a Hell dimension and you lose all manners?"

He was riveted to the spot. If it was here to kill him, he would gladly die now. He caught movement as another shape appeared in the cave entrance beside the likeness he knew so well.

"Hey big guy. Heard you could use a hand. Or ten."

He gaped at them, two avenging goddesses silhouetted against the fierce landscape, weapons at the ready, and thought that this was the cruelest trick he could imagine. Spike, behind him, cursed softly. Buffy, or the thing that looked like Buffy, continued to advance.

"Hello-o! Earth to Angel! You're turning out to be the worst rescue-e in the history of getting rescued."

He put out his arms as if to shield himself, sword lying uselessly at his feet.

"Look, you can just go and tell the Senior Partners to send more demons. We… we prefer the demons. No more mind games. Just go away."

Buffy took in his bloodied face, his mangled arm, his tattered torso. She wanted nothing more that to wrap her arms around him and convince him it was her, tell him it was going to be okay. But she understood. She wouldn't have believed it either.

"Angel," she said slowly, as if soothing a rabid beast. "This isn't a trick. It's really us. We came to get you guys out. I know that's about as believable as a vampire with a soul, but it's just as true."

He shook his head. This was what they needed to break him. Give him hope, offer him _her._ Make him believe she cared enough to come for him. If he took that bait, it would destroy him.

"Leave," he rasped out, and turned away.

Spike took a hesitant step forward, but Angel's voice stilled him.

"Don't fall for it, Spike."

Faith and Buffy exchanged a worried glance. This was going to be more difficult than they had anticipated, and they didn't have much time. The blonde Slayer took another step forward, placed her hand tentatively on his arm. He growled deep in his throat, pulling away.

"Look, can't you just smell me or something?" There was urgency in her voice, but understanding too. "You used to be big with the smelling."

He turned to look at her intently. He would know her smell anywhere: sweetness, vanilla and sunshine. It was as much ingrained in him as the smell of fresh blood. And this certainly smelled like her. He looked to Spike for confirmation. The vampire shrugged noncommittally.

"Either there's two slayers here to rescue us, or we've both gone soft in the noggin'. Which sounds more likely to you?"

"It's a toss up," was the bewildered response.

Illyria stepped closer to the two women and stared at them, her face equal parts menace and confusion.

"They are not like other humans."

"You might wanna take a step back there, Xena," Faith warned as Illyria circled her, gripping her axe more tightly. "Look, Angel, call your bloodhound off and lets get the hell 'outta here. No pun intended."

Angel leveled his gaze at the two women, out of his trance now, but still warring within himself between what he felt to be true and what he knew couldn't possibly be real. He reached out slowly, tentatively, and brushed his fingers across Buffy's hand, watching her face for a response. No magic or trickery, nothing the Devil, the Senior Partners, or the Powers themselves could conjure could ever replicate the sensation of her flesh against his, not even if they had an eternity to get it right. The sensation tore through him in a whirlwind, an electric jolt that could almost jumpstart his heart, if such a thing were possible twice. She grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly, searching his eyes for affirmation. He squeezed gently. It was her. It had to be. And if he was wrong, so be it.

"I hate to interrupt the touchy-feely, but we really need to get a move on."

Angel's head snapped up towards the new voice so suddenly, that he nearly heard bones crack. This was even more impossible, more than Buffy or Faith or any fleeting hope of rescue.

"Connor?"

The boy pulled himself up and hauled his slim body into the cave entrance. Crebbil axe strapped to his back, Wes's dagger for killing extinct Kek demons in his waistband, grin on his face.

"Hey Angel. You can pencil in groping your ex later. What do you say, for now, we get on with the … um…. actual rescuing?"

If Angel had been shocked before, now he was absolutely stupefied. He looked from Buffy to Connor to Faith, to Connor and back to Buffy again. The three of them, here, for him. _Together_. If he wasn't losing his mind, which at the moment seemed like a very big proviso, this seriously had to be someone's idea of a joke.

"What is… how did you… what…?"

He couldn't seem to find the words. Any words.

"Look, as articulate as you are right now, could we make with the 'splainy after we wave bye-bye to the nice little demon dimension?" Buffy tugged on the hand she still held in her own. She pulled him back along with her, motioning to the cave face.

"We need to get to higher ground."

He nodded his acknowledgement, still dazed. As he neared Connor, he couldn't help but scold his son.

"I thought I told you to go home."

Connor shrugged mildly, blue eyes holding a hint of amusement despite their predicament.

"Since when do I listen?"

He leaned closer to Angel, eyeing the Slayers, his next comment for vampire ears only.

"Plus, those two…definitely hot enough for me to risk death and dismemberment."

Angel's lips almost curved into a smile.

Faith took the lead, with Connor behind, and Angel followed. As they began to scale the cliff face, he heard the voices behind him.

"Looking good, pet."

"You too. Much better than when you were all flamey. And don't think you're off the hook for not letting me know you weren't incinerated anymore, by the way."

"The small female is strange."

"Look in the mirror Smurfette."

This time, he did allow himself a smile, if only from the absurdity of it all. They headed up.

***

It took a long time to reach level ground. The rock was rough and jagged, with precious little for hand or foot to find purchase. He watched Connor above him intently, muscles tensed, alert to the slightest possible misstep. He knew the concern was unnecessary; his son's movements were flawless. More than once, he could hear Faith warn Connor to stop looking at her ass. Leave it to her to find levity in the situation. He tried to look down at Buffy, but couldn't see her from his vantage point. He knew Spike was behind her, just as tense in watching her as he was in his observation of Connor. His damaged arm cried out in protest with each pull, but he was forced to ignore the anguished cries. He remembered scaling a cliff much like this not long ago, when seeking answers about Jasmine in a dimension that had lost its goddess.

_Dead thing. _

_The woman you've already lost. The boy is what you're fighting for. But you're going to fail. You're going to lose him, too._

_You've already lost... everything._

The high priest had been right, on all accounts. Dead thing. That's exactly what he was, a dead thing and a bringer of death, infecting everything good and pure around him with a demise much more definitive than his had been. He was no longer Angelus, Scourge of Europe, and yet he still offered an ugly death to anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. Unlucky enough to reach his heart. His soul wasn't the curse. The curse was his fatal touch, like some distorted Midas, the body count of those who had been bound to him trailing in his wake.

Why had they come for him, the only three people he had managed to actually save? Buffy and Connor by freeing them to have a life without him; Faith by convincing her that there was hope of redemption for people like them. Maybe for her, there was. Not for him. Not with the massacre of innocents to be laid at his feet. They didn't stop to think that maybe Hell was where he belonged. Why was that? Why had they risked themselves for him? He would need to ask them that later. He would need to ask Buffy why the one person he had hurt beyond repairing had traversed the dimensions to rescue him.

***

Buffy watched Angel maneuver his powerful body deftly over the rock above her. She wondered if he truly believed it was them, or if he had simply resigned himself to whatever fate lay ahead. His demeanor concerned her. Sure, being stuck in a Hell dimension, again, was bound to suck. But it was more than that. It was as if he believed he _belonged_ there… She wondered if he knew that Wesley was dead. She wondered if that had been the thread that finally broke in him.

***

Spike watched the Slayer as she clung, monkeylike, to the cliff and worked her way up with surprising agility, even for her. It was beautifully poetic that the first time he saw her since his death would be in Hell. He was shocked, flabbergasted really, that she had made this journey, enlisting Faith and that strange kid along the way. Somehow, he had the sneaking suspicion that he wasn't the reason for the portal jumping. That was ok. It was good to see her again. Especially from this angle.

***

Faith hoisted herself over the edge of the cliff, thinking it wasn't a moment too soon. The rest of the group followed and they stood, staring at the expanse before them.

Charred earth, as far as the eye could see. Barren, adorned only by ragged boulders and chasms that led the way back down; down to a bottomless end. The sky was the color of fire, blending into the earth, obscuring the horizon. In the distance, dark shapes flexed reptilian wings that carried them overhead, asserting their unopposed dominion over the land.

Buffy jabbed Angel lightly with her elbow.

"Nice. Homey. I can see why you like it here."

He looked over at her, appreciating the attempt to put him more at ease.

"Oh, yeah. I had plans for a summer home and everything."

She couldn't hold back a laugh.

"Wow. That's a big helping of sarcasm. I think you've been spending too much time with Spike."

"I couldn't agree more," came Spike's voice, flanking her on the other side.

"Hey, who was haunting who?"

"Couldn't bloody well help it, could I? Not my fault the amulet was tied to the damn place."

"Yeah, what's your excuse for sticking around after you couldn't sneak up on me through the wall anymore?"

"Well, someone had to have the stones to be a champion after you hung up your cape."

It was incredible, the way the two vampires could forget where they were the second the opportunity to bicker presented itself. And yet it suffused her with a warmth that was startling and unexpected. Her body suddenly felt lighter, the power coursing through her veins more potent. It was as if, in this forsaken and accursed place, she was finally beginning to awaken from a long sleep. She thought it particularly ironic that, here and now, in the company of two dead men, she felt more alive than she had in years.

"Hate to break up you two lovebirds," Faith put in smoothly, "but aren't we supposed to be looking for a power center or something?"

Buffy nodded, sobering.

"The spot where the magic is strongest. That's the best place to open the portal."

The group moved ahead with the certainty of purpose. They were silent now, alert to the dark pull of this place. Buffy was reminded of her nightmare; it had felt like this. Angel may not be strung up like a Titan, but he was bound here. Only until she could break those chains, she reminded herself.

"Uh, guys?" Connor was pointing somewhere into the distance. "Please tell me that's not what I think it is."

They followed the direction of his gaze.

"Ok kid. That's _not_ a big ass demon army headed straight for us."

"Thanks Faith. I feel much better now."

The masses in the distance had seemed to materialize out of nothingness. The hordes stretched out, as far as the eye could see. A hundred breeds of demon, monsters they could never have imagined. Angel spared a glance at the sky; at least the dragons were keeping away for now. Spike seemed to read his thoughts.

"Next one's mine, mate."

They moved forward again, driven by another purpose now, the thrill of impending battle alive within each of them. Two Slayers, two Champions, an ancient God, and impossibility in the flesh, blood set ablaze with the imperative to survive.

_I unleashed Hell, _Angel thought as the first glimmer of hope soothed his aching body, _and now Hell's in for a rude awakening. _

He looked at Buffy, scythe in hand, hair swept up in the wind, the power rolling off her in waves fiercer than he had ever felt before.

_Together you were strong._

The Mohra's words, so long a source of anguish, now took on a distinctly different meaning.

_Together we are strong._ _If there is a way out, we will find it. _

He looked at her and smiled, the white of his teeth brilliant against the harsh landscape. It was how he had smiled long ago— before the darkness, before Angelus, before the Powers had conspired to wrench them from each other's grasp. It was an apology, a thank you, a promise.

_We will survive. This will not be for nothing._

She returned the smile with one of her own. Confidence. Acceptance.

_I know._

And in the next moment, Hell's army washed over them like a wave, sweeping them up in its undertow.


	7. Chapter 7 Sacrifice

**Disclaimer:** It's all Joss's.

* * *

**Chapter 7~ Sacrifice**

_Hell's army washes over them like a wave, sweeping them up in its undertow._

Weapons clash. Screams, inhuman as the things that make them, permeate the air. The smell of blood envelops them like a fog, the flowing red and blue and green a nightmarish rainbow. There is nothing but frenzy and mayhem. And death.

***

The warriors separate; each proves their worth in bodies dispatched by their hand. The God-King Illyria uses her fists with precision, not wasting a single blow. There is a satisfying crunch of bone, and she is on to the next before the former has even hit the ground. This is a world that she knows. And yet, grief for a mere human is still heavy within her. There is no understanding it. No controlling it. She fights for him now, because she was seconds too late to help him. This is something he taught her. _To endure_.

The white-haired one is not far off, and his duster billows around him like a cape. She heard him say once that "testing" her helped him brush up on techniques he hadn't known were rusty. He attacks now with the fervor of the Spike of old, before being enslaved by chip or burdened by soul, when evil was his one and only master. He has been spoiling for a brawl such as this ever since Sunnydale, and he'll be damned if he wastes it. He won't admit to having anything in common with is grandsire, but he too feels the weight of fallen comrades. Each demon savaged by his sword is a sacrifice to those who he had come to think of as friends.

***

Connor watches the man he has come to know as his father slaughter countless demons. Remembers something, a speech made with flesh still cracked and muscles weak from months spent at the bottom of the ocean.

_Champions. _

_We live as though the world was what it should be, to show it what it can be._

Was this Angel's reward? The sacrifices he'd made, the friends and loved ones who'd perished, the suffering he'd endured… Did it matter at all, to anyone?

_Yes. To the women who came for him. To Faith and Buffy, it matters._

_And me. It matters to me. _

He is flying through the air, axe striking skull. The skull splits in half, the sound of blade grating bone, a fountain of rotten blood and pus splashing across his face. He surrenders himself to the calling within, things he'd forgotten and remembered again. Understanding comes now, in the chaos of battle. Through the clarity Angel's gift has given him.

_I'm with you now, Dad. _

_I'm a part of it._

***

He is a blur of muscle and steel. Movements ingrained in bone. Muscle memory. Poetry in motion. He cuts down demons like death incarnate, blade slicing through flesh and muscle and bone. He strikes out at the beast in front of him. Breaks through its defenses, impaling through the abdomen, sword down to the hilt. Movement catches the corner of his eye, approaching fast. The sword is stuck. He pulls with all his might and it breaks free, but precious time is lost. The snarling demon will be upon him before he can swing, the expectation of teeth and claws and axe finding their target bitter within him. He swings anyway, certain it will be too late.

A torrent of blond hair beside him. Blade, sure and swift, gleaming like polished glass. It slices like a knife through butter, betrayed only by the crunch of bone. The demon is mere inches from his face when the head slides from the body, cleaved by the Slayer's scythe. Green blood spurts as it falls, foul, but her smile gleams bright as her blade.

"Spending too much time at the office?"

Her laughter rings out like a siren song. He can't help but smile as he hacks off an arm that is now grabbing at him.

"Just getting warmed up."

But she is gone, cutting across the field of battle, a harvest of blood. He almost forgets to fight as he watches her, fluid and grace, beauty and death. Gone is the boyish athleticism of her youth; the agility of a jaguar residing in its stead. She is a work of art, a true predator, and a shiver of excitement runs down his spine.

A knife grazes his arm, and he turns back to what needs to be done. He cuts and hacks with fervor, fueled by the hope she has given him. He remembers now why she has always been his reason for fighting.

He can feel Connor to his right, axe swinging high overhead, faster than any human has a right to be. Faith is beside his son, still a wild and untamed thing, kicking and stabbing with unrestrained rage. Spike and Illyria, the last of his generals, back to back, a whirlwind of leather and ancient power.

He brings down another, a second, a third, the blood and gore wet on his face. Metal carves through skin, muscle, bone, sculpting figures of agony and death. Severed limbs, discarded, pile up at his feet, and the demon inside him roars in triumph. Once, the sword is kicked from his hand. The Kith'harn doesn't have time to sneer before his arm is around its neck and twists sharply, the audible snap music to his ears.

He loses track of how many they've killed. The bodies keep falling like cut blades of grass, but there are always more. He wonders how much longer they can last; the sword in his hand does not waver. He hears Buffy call out to them, the command in her voice a habit. Theyfight their way to her side and surround her, the pull of magic in this spot vibrating through their bones. The mission is clear: hold off Hell's army until she can open the portal. It's not as easy as it sounds.

***

She stands, surrounded by champions. She holds the sundial, pouring powder on stone. A thick black mist rises, snaking its way towards the ashen sky. Night in their world. It is time.

The capsule is in her hand.

"Solvere!" Unbind.

The liquid within begins to glow with an ethereal light.

The circle around her tightens. No sense in letting anything else come through after them. Her voice is firm with practiced words.

_Tear down the walls- Of what's been sealed_

_So unjust deeds- Can be revealed_

_Unlock the gate- To the world of men_

_For balance- To be set again_

_Wolf, Ram, and Hart- have no decree_

_Over the one- who wields the Key!_

The flash of light is instantaneous. Blinding. Spearing the sky. The demons fall back in amazement. She smiles. Willow was right. All they needed was the Key to the dimensions. Just a small amount of her sister's blood. _Thank you, Dawn._

It stands before them, a wall that ripples and undulates, flowing into the place where they belong.

"Sextus conmittere." Unite the six.

They jump through the wall of light.


	8. Chapter 8 Touchstone

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Chapter 8 ~ Touchstone**

"I'm really glad that 'unite the six' thing wasn't taken literally."

It was the first thing Angel said after making sure that they weren't fused into one giant six headed monstrosity. Buffy stared at him incredulously.

"Wasn't actually aware there was a chance of that, but thanks for the lovely visual."

He shrugged, remembering how _he_ had actually learned about that altogether unpleasant possibility.

"And let this be a lesson to you," Buffy added, "to never go corporate."

"Aren't you the head honcho of your own little conglomerate now, pet?" Spike offered smoothly. "'Slayers of the world: Unite'?"

"Hey, at least I finally learned how to delegate responsibility."

Buffy and Spike's friendly banter faded into the background as Angel took in the surroundings. They were back where it all started. Night, alleyway. At least it wasn't raining. What was it about alleys and rain with him?

He surveyed the area, dismay snaking across his face at the damage his war had caused. The lingering thrill of the battle behind them seemed to dissipate, the adrenaline dying in his veins. Spike had moved to stand beside him, and he wondered if the younger vampire felt the same crushing weight constricting a chest that didn't need air.

"Nice apocalypse we started, eh old man?"

Angel whirled to face him, a reprimand sharp on his tongue. He let it go when he met Spike's eyes, seeing the same sorrow that he knew must be reflected in his own.

"We didn't start it, Spike. They did." It came out harsher than he'd intended.

"Showed 'em though, didn't we? The soddin' wankers must be really roasting in it now."

Buffy, busy trying to wipe the gore off her pants, glanced up at this.

"Uh, speaking of. Your evil ex-bosses are only as roasty as they normally are. You know, being in Hell and all."

Angel looked at her with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

A smile touched her lips, as if she were hiding a delicious secret.

"Glamour," she said simply.

Angel's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Spike hooted with laughter.

"Let me guess: Red?"

She nodded, smile broadening.

"Yep. Willow and the Coven are working some major spellage. Have been, ever since we breached the Hell dimension. As far as the nasties are concerned, you guys are still battle royale-ing it in there." She looked as pleased as if she were the one casting the spell.

Angel shook his head in amazement, thinking of how many times the red-headed witch had saved his hide. He knew it was all for Buffy, but felt touched nonetheless. Willow had always been kind to him, even when he hadn't deserved it.

"How long can they keep it going?" he asked.

"Kinda iffy on that part," she replied. "Willow said at least a week. Beyond that…" She shrugged noncommittally.

"Buys us some time to get a plan together, yeah?" Faith put a hand on Angel's broad shoulder. "Come on big guy, we could all use some R&R." Her hand came away with some sort of goop, and she scrubbed at it furiously.

Angel looked around, slightly bewildered, wondering what place was left for him to go back to. He started to follow the slayers as they led the way, suddenly feeling out of his depth in a city that had once been under his protection.

"But…where are we going?"

It was Connor who answered, some unspoken emotion passing across his blue eyes.

"Home."

***

From the direction they were headed, he had a pretty good idea where "home" was. It was strange that Connor would refer to it as such. Then again, nothing about the situation was particularly… not strange. There were a million questions burning within him, overlapping in a senseless cacophony in his tired brain. He caught up with Buffy and increased his pace beside her, creating some distance between them and the rest of the group. When he spoke, he knew his voice carried the weariness that had seeped into his bones.

"Buffy," he said softly, "I'm very grateful for what you did. In ways I can't even express right now…But there's something I need to ask you."

He stopped talking, as if waiting for permission. She kept her face forward as she spoke.

"So ask. And, you're welcome." Her tone was patient, yet held a hint of wariness. He wondered what she was expecting. What she _knew_ to expect.

"Connor… How did he end up a part of this?"

He could swear her surefooted pace faltered.

"Faith and I looked for you for a while before Willow figured out you were all other- dimensioney. Connor was looking too. We just sort of, ran into each other. Well, he ran into Faith's fist…"

She laughed softly, but he could tell there was more she hadn't said. He let the Faith thing slide, knowing how pigheaded his son could be. Hell, he'd given him a good butt whipping quite a few times himself.

"That doesn't explain why you let a stranger in on your rescue mission."

He was careful to keep his voice neutral, struggling to surmount the desperation to find out how much she was aware of.

Buffy had known about Connor when the baby had first been born. He had told her. She had been angry, and hurt, and confused, but she had understood. After all, had she not herself been lost in the darkness, unable to live again after her resurrection and, as he later learned, sought in Spike refuge from the cold within?

But it was different now. Those memories had been stripped away from her, as they had from everyone when he'd made his deal with the devil. Could he really ask her to swallow this bitter pill a second time? Yet something had made her trust Connor. When she remained silent, he repeated his question.

"Why did you let him come, Buffy?"

She stopped walking, turning to finally face him.

"He wasn't big with the asking. Kid's as stubborn as you." She looked at him meaningfully, the words passing unspoken between them, and he stumbled back a step.

"Connor told us," she said by way of explanation. There was a fleeting moment where hurt flashed unguarded across her face, only to be replaced by a sort of resigned acceptance. Wordlessly, they resumed walking.

Relief was a completely inappropriate emotion to be feeling right now, he was sure. But this was a burden Angel had no desire to carry, and he was grateful that Connor had taken the choice out of his hands. It made sense that the boy would have told them; it was probably the only way for him to even get a foot in the door with the two slayers. A part of him, the paternal part, was a little angry with Buffy for allowing his son to be put in harm's way. But another part, one deeply buried along with so many other hopes and desires, secretly rejoiced that they'd found one another, the two people he loved more than he would ever love anything else. Even if he really did live forever.

For a moment, he could almost believe that the Powers were still on his side.

***

They stumbled, weary, through the doors of the Hyperion. Angel took in the familiar surroundings, remembering the last time he had set foot in this place. It had been the day they buried Cordy, and he had come here to feel close to her.

"Nice digs." Spike whistled appreciatively, descending the steps to stand in the middle of the lobby and absorb its expanse.

"Beats the pants off Evil Inc. Headquarters, don't it?" Faith said, dropping her weapon on the reception counter with a loud clatter. Angel grimaced at her disregard for maintaining order and cleanliness.

"Plus, no demons. Added bonus." Buffy looked at her companions and added hastily, "Present company excluded, of course."

Angel shrugged, part of him still firmly ensconced in the past.

"There used to be. A paranoia demon. We exercised it before moving in."

The group looked at him, eyes wide, bringing him out of his reverie.

"What?" he asked innocently.

Connor shook his head and laughed. Angel turned to look at him, stuck out his hand.

"I— thank you."

He infused the simple words with so much love, so much gratitude, so much unspoken meaning, that Connor's eyes widened in surprise. He reached for his father's hand, grasping it tightly.

"You're welcome," he responded, matching emotion carried in his voice.

They maintained the contact for a moment and then broke away. There were so many things that Angel wanted to say, to be expressed between them, but now was not the time. It would have to wait.

His attention fell to Faith, muttering softly as she attempted to clean the gunk off her boots.

"Faith."

It came out hoarse, almost a whisper. The depth of her loyalty was something Angel suspected would never cease to amaze him. She lifted her head up to look at him quizzically, and their eyes locked.

"How come helping you always leaves me with that warm, fuzzy, run over by a Mack truck feeling?"

He smiled inwardly at her discomfort, the attempt to cut through the drama with a sarcastic remark. He refused to let her off the hook that easy.

"What you did for me—"

She cut him off before he could finish.

"Hey, don't sweat it. Always figured I'd end up in Hell. Didn't think it'd be 'cause of you, but good a reason as any, right?"

He rested an arm on each of her shoulders and bent down so his eyes could be level with hers.

"I mean it Faith. Thank you."

She flashed him a dazzling smile.

"You're not gonna try to hug me again, are you?"

Angel graced her with his small half-smile and put an arm around her briefly. When he released his grip, Spike feigned to reach for her as well.

"Mind if I cop a feel too?"

"If you wanna lose an arm, be my guest."

Buffy watched the scene with emotions she couldn't quite grasp. She had never seen Faith and Angel relate to one another as they did now, comfort and shared experience between them. It left an unsettling knot in the pit of her stomach, and she felt like a hypocrite. After all, she had her own…twisted… history with Spike. She had no right to begrudge Angel his friendship with Faith, especially since there were so few survivors from his camp. And, after all, what was a little brain tour between friends? Still, she felt the bitterness seeping through her, the distinct knowledge that Faith had seen parts of Angel that she herself would never know.

***

The embattled party congregated in the lobby to assess the damage. Illyria was uninjured, and contented herself with wandering the hotel's long corridors. Connor, having gotten away with a few scrapes and bruises, loitered by the weapons cabinet. Faith had bandaged her own arm, and set about cleaning up some of Spike's already fading wounds. Buffy could see the weight that dipped the vampire's shoulders, and thought that it was the most like Angel she had ever seen him look.

Angel's cool flesh was mangled and broken. The skin had been nearly stripped off his left arm; the parting gift of a dying dragon. His shoulder had been impaled clean through with a spear, and it was just barely beginning to knit together. There were multiple stabs and bruises on his torso and abdomen, and when her fingers grazed his side, he sucked in an unneeded breath. She was pretty sure the ribs underneath were broken. His face too, bore the marks of battle, and his eyes bore the marks of the horrors he had endured.

The touch was light and gentle as she thoroughly cleaned and bandaged his wounds. He could swear that her fingers lingered seconds longer than necessary over the muscles of his chest. Every fiber of him quivered with the feel of her, after so many torturous years, skimming over the surface of his body. Even with his son and her former lover in the room, there was still that intimacy between them. For long moments her eyes were intent on their task, but when he finally caught her gaze, the green depths brimmed with unspoken emotion and unanswered questions.

When she was finished, she stood back to admire her handiwork. Angel stared down at the white gauze adorning his body.

"I feel like a mummy."

He heard Connor snicker.

"Well, you look like an idiot." The words were harsh, but there was no malice in her tone. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"I know you're rounding century number three, but I assume you _have_ heard of a telephone," she continued, gesturing emphatically. "Would it have killed you to call and let me know what was going on?" She winced at her choice of words, even as they spilled from her mouth.

Anger flashed in his eyes, but he kept his tone even.

"I assumed you weren't taking calls from Evil Incorporated."

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. He was right. He'd had no reason to think she would help him. Even though she'd started it, it was a conversation she no longer wanted to have.

"I would have helped you, Angel. Shoulder to shoulder, remember?"

He nodded. It was more of an apology than he had expected to get. It was enough.

As she stood there, hands on her slim hips, studying him with a curious expression, his eyes wandered behind her to the spaces beyond, to the abandoned office and desk and coffee maker, sole remnants of a life now scattered in the wind like so many dusted vampires.

He saw them very clearly here. Cordy, her thousand gigawatt smile infectious, even to him, as she teased him mercilessly. Wes and Gunn arguing over which axe was best to use to kill a Haklar demon. Fred, surrounded by books and calculations, making him feel needed and accepted. He looked over at Spike, the pale face separate from the memories that lingered here. Somehow, the other vampire seemed to understand anyway, and nodded a silent acknowledgement.

This had been a real home to him once. More home than the apartment or mansion in Sunnydale. More home than the basement beneath the old Angel Investigations office. He had been surrounded by his family here, sometimes lonely, but never alone. Now it was just another empty place filled with painful memories, the ghosts of his friends more haunting than any victim he had ever claimed as Angelus. He suddenly felt how tired he was, body and soul exhausted down to the quick.

He rose with a grumble of thanks and headed for the stairway, eyes downcast, grimacing at more than just the pain from his wounds. The instinct to distance himself was overpowering, as if the lobby of the Hyperion were suddenly enveloped in sunlight that he needed to escape to survive. He took the stairs two at a time, driven by the need to find a deep, black hole and squirrel himself away into its darkness.

***

He sank onto his old bed, feeling her soft approach before he saw her. She stopped in front of him, and time stood still as they looked at each other, _really_ looked, for the first time in an eternity.

She had filled out a bit since the last time he had seen her, some of the lush curves of her girlhood taking up residence again and softening features that had been sharpened with thinness and worry the year before. The kiss of the Roman sun had darkened her skin and lingered in her hair, blond strands laced with even blonder streaks. There was a smudge of dirt on her forehead, and his hand itched to reach out and brush it away. Her face, every line and curve as familiar as his own hands, was imprinted with a calmness he had never known her to possess. He thought that maybe she finally found what she had been looking for— the peace he could never offer finally within her grasp. She was still _his_ Buffy, _his_ Slayer, _his_ Chosen One. But now she was a _woman_, and it startled him so much that he could no longer bear to look at her.

***

Feeling his gaze slip from hers, she sighed, and sat beside him on the bed. She turned her face so she could look at him, so close, to study him and convince herself that he was really here next to her.

He was still young. Despite the cuts and bruises on his face, he was still beautiful. He was still the most breathtaking man she had ever seen. Or ever would see, she suspected. And yet, impossibly, he was different. He was wider, stronger, more muscular, even since she had seen him last, almost a year ago in Sunnydale. His face would never change, and yet his eyes betrayed him. He was older somehow, more tortured, more withdrawn. And, amazingly, more human. He was more of a man. It was as if all the roads he'd walked, all the people he'd collected in his heart since he first left her those long years ago had irrefutably linked him to humanity. Doyle, Cordy, Wes, Gunn, Fred. All lost to him now. Once, it had just been her. She had been the center of his world, his very being, and he had somehow linked the importance of his existence to her. Then, he had found his own life, his own family. And now, he'd lost them.

They sat together quietly, side by side, inches apart. Neither dared move or speak lest the other vanish. Sitting alone like this, after so many years of the miles and the sun and the moon between them, was almost too much to comprehend. She turned to look at him again, his face a mask set in stone. She had never seen him this defeated. Yes, he was definitely different. Because he had a soul, he _could_ change. But he was still Angel. _Her_ Angel. He was still the man who spoke her name with reverence, the one who had taught her to love and dream and hope, the one who had fought with her, fought _for _her, loved her, left her, found her again and again. He was still the one she yearned for, cried for, railed against, missed, loved, sought out in the darkness. She was still inexorably tangled up in him somehow, and she knew now that she always would be.

Her hand, trembling, reached to cover his. He was as cold and still as marble.

"Angel," she whispered, love and strength and comfort seeping from her voice and into his unbeating heart.

He turned to look at her, eyes fire and anguish. She pulled him closer. He lost himself in her embrace, mourning those who had perished forever.


	9. Chapter 9 Weight Of Words

**Chapter 9 ~ Weight Of Words**

Angel awoke to a moment of sheer panic. Unsure of where he was or how he'd gotten there, his eyes roved the room frantically for some sign of familiarity. He calmed slowly, shaking the cobwebs of deep sleep from his head, remembering all that had happened. The rescue from Hell, his loyal rescuers. Faith, Connor. Buffy… He blinked back the remaining haze, thinking of the comfort she had offered him, of the way he'd lost himself in her arms. Last night (assuming it _was_ last night; how long had he been asleep?), she had left him just long enough for them both to shower and change, venturing only as far as the room across the hall. When she returned, hair still damp, the scent and nearness of her assaulted his senses so thoroughly, that he was sure he would have done something stupid if he hadn't been drained to exhaustion. She had redressed his wounds tenderly, then held his hands for long minutes before pulling him into another embrace. They lay on the bed and he held her, bringing her slender body flush with his, holding on as if he were a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. Being surrounded by the familiar smell and feel of her was like finally coming home after a long absence, and as much as he had ached for her through the years, it was in that moment that he felt most acutely how much he had missed her. Suffused by the warmth that radiated from her and into him, he had drifted off into a quiet, dreamless blackness.

Now she was no longer next to him, although he could still smell her on his sheets. In his bed. On his clothes. He could feel her presence nearby, and he wondered, solemnly, _what next?_

He got up slowly, feeling the weight of every bone, the screaming ache of every muscle. His arm felt like it was on fire. He couldn't remember the last time he had fed. Face washed, he headed downstairs, sounds of activity coming up to greet him. A small smile came to his tired lips; he didn't know if he could have handled the hotel being still and silent. As devoid of life as his friends now were, an eternal monument to their noticeable absence.

***

He observed them from the stairwell, capturing the moment as a photograph in his mind. Faith and Connor were engaged in hand to hand combat, a graceful duet, their movements fluid and instinctual. Buffy sat on the high counter of the reception desk, legs swinging wildly, a half-eaten donut in her hand, commenting loudly on the battle before her. Faith was largely ignoring her blonde counterpart, occasionally gracing her with a sarcastic remark. Connor, to his credit, was taking some of Buffy's criticisms under advisement.

It wasn't a sight he ever expected to see. The three of them seemed so comfortable around each other, their camaraderie evident even after such a short time. The scene made his chest constrict painfully, and he was startled by the warmth and happiness blossoming inside.

"Hey Angel."

Connor dropped his guard to greet him, and was rewarded with a blow to the gut from Faith.

"I'm so gonna get you back for that," Connor said after regaining his composure. Faith smirked, and they continued to circle each other in their predatory dance.

Buffy turned her attention to him, smiling warmly.

"Hey."

"Hey," he answered, approaching her and rubbing the back of his neck.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Like the dead," he answered wryly, and she chuckled.

"Funny."

He looked at her deadpan, recalling the words from long ago.

"I'm still a funny guy."

She smiled broadly, nearly blinding him with the sight. Hopping up off the counter with ease, she reached out for his hand.

"Come on sleepyhead. I have a surprise for you."

He accepted the proffered hand and let her lead him to the refrigerator tucked in the corner by the office. She flung the door open, and laughed again at his startled expression. Composing her features into her most innocent look, she asked, "What?"

He stared, wide eyed.

"How did you…?"

The refrigerator was stacked with blood bags. Not containers from the butcher, _bags_, with demarcations of human blood types. He resisted the urge to tear one open and wolf it down like an animal.

"It's a funny story actually," Buffy began, and he marveled at the perverse pleasure she seemed to be getting out of this. "Faith and Connor went to get some stuff this morning. You know, groceries, donuts, blood… The necessities. Well, on their way to the butcher's they spotted a blood bank delivery truck."

She leaned in, her lips curved into the barest hint of a sardonic smile.

"I guess the opportunity was too good to resist."

Angel scowled, even as he secretly trembled in anticipation at the thought of the life-giving liquid flooding his veins.

"She shouldn't be teaching my son to steal."

Buffy bit back the urge to inform him that the way Faith told it, Connor hadn't needed any help or prodding from her.

"Hey, it was a one time thing, and you really need it. It's of the good, Angel."

Still, he hesitated.

"Look, I know you don't drink human blood anymore. I get it. Too tempting. It's like me with chocolate…" she trailed off at the disbelieving glace he cast her way. "Ok, maybe not quite like that, but same principle. Anyway, special circumstances. You'll heal much faster this way. Not that I mind playing nursemaid."

She poked him in the ribs playfully, grabbing a bag of blood and thrusting it in his hand.

"Look, O pos! Bet that's your favorite."

He stared at the bag in his hand, feeling his fangs start to itch. She was right, and he knew it. But he had been fighting his instincts for so long, he wasn't sure how to stop.

"Do you want me to microwave it for you?"

"No!" He looked up at her sharply. Then, more composed, repeated, "No. Thank you."

He retreated to the privacy of the office, shutting the door behind him. Over the years, he had gotten used to drinking in front of his human friends, to the point that he hadn't even thought about it anymore.

"Don't be embarrassed," Cordy had said, the first time he hesitated. "We're family."

It broke the ice. She drank her juice, Wes drank his tea, and he drank his blood, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But it didn't come naturally with Buffy. He had always avoided drinking in front of her, even when he had returned from the Hell she sent him to and she was taking care of him. It felt like an affront to everything she was, and he thought that, even if she wouldn't show it, the Slayer inside would recoil in revulsion at the sight of his demon. And, even more than that, he was loathe to remind her so blatantly of the creature she had bound herself to. He couldn't do it then, and, even though he had grown infinitely more comfortable in his own skin over the years, he couldn't do it now.

***

Alone in the office, he vamped and bit into the bag, sucking greedily at the refreshing fluid. After so many days of deprivation, the thick coppery taste was the sweetest nectar he could imagine. It coated his throat, trailing coolly to pool in his stomach, and he groaned in ecstasy. He continued to gulp the contents down, until the bag was completely drained. Waiting a few minutes, he relished the renewed life flowing through him, finally allowing his features to morph back into his human face. Composing himself, he opened the door and stepped out, nearly colliding with Buffy in the process.

"What are you doing?" he asked hoarsely, already ashamed of something he knew she hadn't even seen. She held out the mug in her hand.

"I got you some more. I didn't know how you like it." She smiled sheepishly. "Spike used to like his scalding, but I figured you more for a lukewarm kinda guy. Just so you can minimize the enjoy factor."

His skin still glowed from the first bag, and if it were possible to blush, he would have. She'd pegged him, dead to rights, so to speak. He maintained tight control over how much he enjoyed feeding; another way of punishing the beast within.

He took the mug, brushing his fingers against hers gently. The warmth of the mug, or maybe the warmth of her touch, reawakened his temporarily sated hunger. He turned to go back into the office.

"Don't."

Her voice was part request, part command. He stopped, turning to meet her gaze.

"Please," she said firmly, "don't hide from me."

Wrestling with it for a moment, he could admit the futility in trying to deny her anything. He lifted the mug to his lips slowly and drank, face human, eyes locked with hers. To his great surprise, she gave no indication of flinch or recoil, inwardly or otherwise. Instead, she inclined her head toward him and smiled.

"See," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice, "not so hard."

She took the empty mug from him and went back to the lobby, already instructing Connor to do a better job protecting his left flank. Angel stood, rooted to the spot with amazement, thinking about how many other assumptions that he had made about her would prove to be false.

***

Tired of the scuff marks being left on the floor of his hotel, Angel escorted Faith and Connor to the basement for the remainder of their sparring session. He stayed with them, taking over Buffy's place as the commentator.

"Tap me out Big A," Faith said finally, leaving father and son alone with the memories that surrounded them.

They stood looking at one another, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, each mirroring the other's stance. For nearly three years, this had been his heart's greatest desire; time with his son. He had never expected it to be possible, and now that it was miraculously a reality, Angel had no idea what to do or say.

"What are—"

"How long—"

They spoke simultaneously, then laughed, both feeling the weight of hesitation.

Angel nodded at his son. "Go ahead."

"What are you going to do now?"

He thought about it, realizing there were no answers to be had at the moment. All he knew was that the two people he loved most in the world were here with him, and it was enough to make him believe in miracles.

"I don't know."

Connor's lips curved into a small smile.

"I thought you always had a plan."

"My plans tend to get those around me killed. I think I'll go planless for a while."

He barely squeezed the words past the rising bitterness. Not knowing how to respond, Connor nodded his sympathy.

Angel studied the face of the young man he didn't really know.There were too many things he wanted to ask, to say, to have finally understood between them. But all that could be coherently expressed at the moment was that Connor had risked too much, and he would not allow his son to remain in harm's way any longer.

"You should go home."

It wasn't really what he wanted. He wanted to take Connor to the movies, to a ball game, to spar and tell him stories and laugh together as they never had before. He wanted all the chances they should have had but didn't. He signed those chances away, traded them for fancy windows and private jets and false power and hands stained with the blood of friends. He traded them for a Connor who could smile, and go to Stanford, and _live_, so that his son may have chances of his own.

"You keep saying that and I might start to think I'm not welcome."

_This_ Connor, the one who wasn't confused and emotionally damaged, could understand where Angel was coming from. He understood too, that if they would allow it, Angel would try to send them all away, tell them to go on with their lives and leave him to fester in solitude. Because he believed he deserved to be alone. Because he stupidly thought he could protect them by pushing them away. Because after nearly 300 years roaming the earth, the vampire could still be so blind to so many things.

"You're always welcome Connor. I just… you shouldn't be involved in this any more than you have been. I'm very grateful, but it's too dangerous."

"Says the dragon- slaying vampire whose fighting skills I inherited."

Angel's jaw clenched. He hated Connor being trivial about his safety.

"This isn't the life I wanted for you." His voice was quiet, intense. Filled with regret.

"I thought you wanted me to be a part of it. The whole Champion thing."

Angel smiled despite himself. Uncertainty and pride waged battle within him.

"I did. Then I gave you up. So you could have something real. Something normal."

Connor bristled at the word. 'Normal' wasn't something he would use to describe any of this, and he didn't think the Slayers upstairs would take kindly to it either. Somehow, normalcy didn't seem like it had been a part of their existence.

"Man, what is it with you and this warped idea of _normal_? That's what you said to Buffy when you left her too. Look at us Angel! Do you think I had a normal life being hit by cars and getting back up without a scratch? Did Buffy or Faith, hunting vampires at night? None of us are normal, and we never can be."

"Ok, maybe 'normal' wasn't the best choice of words. How about, less dangerous. You have a good life Connor. You should go back to it."

Connor sighed, conceding a war of words that he couldn't win.

"I'm going back to school eventually. I just…I took the time off and…. I really needed to make sure you were ok."

The boy's concern touched him so deeply that Angel decided to let the topic go. For now.

"Thank you," he said softly. Then, a slight smile beginning to touch his lips, he added, "Now let me show you why Faith kept kicking your butt."

What he really wanted was to pull Connor into his arms and never let go. But this, more than he dreamed could ever be, was enough.

***

Angel was downstairs, sparring with his son. _His son._ It was still one of the strangest things in the world, and she had seen more than her fair share of strange. She pictured them circling each other, their identical posture, their identical laugh.

Buffy looked at the envelope clutched in her hand, its contents heavy with the weight of words. She would give him some time, she resolved. Let him spend precious moments with Connor, let him forget about battle and death. Let him know happiness for a few short hours, before compounding the world shattered at his feet with more despair.

"You gonna tell him?"

Buffy jumped. She had been too engrossed in her own thoughts to hear the approaching footsteps.

"Give me a heart attack, why don't you!"

Faith shrugged sheepishly.

"Sorry. So, you gonna tell him? Give him the letter?"

"In a while."

The dark hair bobbed in assent as Faith nodded. She turned to go up the stairs, then stopped on the landing. She chewed her lip furiously, working something out inside her head.

"B?"

Soft. Quiet. Un-Faith-like.

"Yeah?"

"You think he'll be ok?"

She didn't know.

"I hope so."

Another nod. Then she was alone in the room once more. Alone with the questions. With the doubts.

What must it be like for Angel, having them here? He adored his son. He had a close friendship with Faith that she still didn't quite understand, and wasn't sure she wanted to. He had that love/hate macho vamp thing with Spike that had been the staple of their relationship for over a century. And she herself was… She didn't know what she was to him anymore. They were _something_ though, and they always would be. But he had moved beyond that, beyond all of them in one way or another. And now he was in this place he had left behind, surrounded by people out of a past he had walked away from, while the family he had nurtured for the last few years lay massacred across the field of battle. Did he wish he had perished with them, resentment towards her at being sprung from Hell growing within him? If that was the case, then he would just have to deal. She had done what he would do for her without a moment's hesitation. But had she done it for him, or for herself? Because it was the right thing to do, or because she wouldn't let him fade into the abyss and leave her behind again? Because the world needed him, or because she couldn't bear the thought of existing without him? At the time, she had been focused only on the fact that she needed to find him, not the reasons why. Now,she wasn't sure she was ready to face the answers.

***

It was hours before he saw her. Showered and dressed after his session with Connor, he headed downstairs for some more blood. Much as he hated to admit it, he was far from healed and the physical activity had taken its toll. Hunger sated, he took a moment to center himself. It was then that he felt her soul calling out to his. He had always known when she needed him. He knew it now.

He found her in the courtyard, bathed in the light of the moon. Still, silent. Radiant. The blond hair gleamed like silver, her eyes blinding him with their glow. He knew she deserved to laugh in the sunlight, but there was no denying that she was a beacon in the darkness. It was only by the grace of her guiding light that he hadn't crashed against the treacherous cliffs and burned to ash eons ago.

He stood beside her, not too close, but close enough to feel that prickle in his spine. Only she could make him forget the things it was his curse to remember.

"It's so beautiful." She was looking up at the sky, shimmering with stars.

"Yes." He was looking at her.

"You'd never think Hell's army made this place its playground. Not from looking up there."

He didn't respond. There weren't enough words.

"Sometimes I wonder if the Powers are even watching anymore, or if it's all just reruns for them."

He thought of Cordy.

"They're watching."

"Yeah. Human misery. It's quite the spectator sport."

Buffy's eyes were as distant as the stars.

Angel saw her shiver, almost imperceptibly, and wrap her arms about herself.

"Cold?"

She nodded.

He had no jacket to offer her as he had once, before loss and duty had aged her.

_You're cold._

_You can take it. _

Her chin had tilted in defiance. As he had looked into her eyes, dancing with amusement and challenge, he knew that someday he would lose himself in her. And he had, just as she had lost herself in him. And then they had lost each other. Yet here he was. If it weren't for her, would he have ever had the chance to be human? Would he have even wanted it? Spectating aside, had the Powers orchestrated everything just so, to ensure that they met and he could be set on the path to his destiny? Had they known that a single moment on the sunny steps of Hemery High would infuse him with a lifetime of purpose? That she would save him, then send him to Hell, only to save him again and again?

He wondered if she had always been destined to be his downfall, his salvation, or both. Then he reached for her.

Her shoulders felt miniscule under his hands, smaller even than he remembered. She had always been larger than life, and the physical reminder of how tiny she really was never failed to surprise him. He rubbed her arms gently, inching her closer, feeling his blood stir. Her eyes locked on his, and he was startled to find them filled with unshed tears.

"Buffy? What's wrong?"

She shook her head wordlessly, covered one of his moving hands with her own, stilling it. Holding onto it for a moment, composing herself, infusing him with her warmth. She took half a step away, reaching into her back pocket, holding something out to him. The moon shone down on the paper, casting it in a strange glow. It was his turn to shiver.

Angel looked at the object in her hand, then up at her expectantly. Knowing what it was, needing her to tell him anyway. Maybe coming from her, it wouldn't gut him quite as painfully.

"Wes left this for you."

There was no sense in prolonging the torture. Band-aid off, along with hair, and skin, and muscle. Down to the bone.

He took it from her slowly, willing his hand not to tremble. With a final glance at his savior, his unwitting punisher, he went back inside and up to his room. She shouldn't see this.

Angel stared at his own name written in that familiar hand. It was a long time before he tore the envelope open, and when he unfolded the sheet within, his hand did tremble.

He read, each and every word a blow penetrating deeper than the one before it.

_My friend,_

_I truly hope that it is you who is reading this letter. I hope that you have emerged from the battle triumphant, an avenging phoenix rising from the ashes. Or at least, I hope that you emerged relatively unscathed. I have no such illusions about myself. Do not blame yourself for that. Of course you will, but you shouldn't. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. I knew how this would end for me. My only regret is that you may now be alone, with neither friend nor ally, nor tie to humanity. I think you are strong enough to survive that, but I wish that it did not have to be so. _

_I know you Angel. I know there are a great many things you carry that you had every right to let go of long ago. And yet you suffer. Do not suffer for me. I will forever be grateful for the strangest occurrence, stranger than I could have ever imagined. A vampire with a soul saw a rogue, demon-hunting ex-Watcher and made him a part of his family. Gave him a purpose. Gave all of us a purpose, every life you touched and allowed to touch you in turn. They would not blame you, any of them. I am grateful that you had the courage and foresight to try and finish what we started, the three of us, all those years ago. Cordelia always believed. She knew, and not because she was a seer. She had faith in you to the very end. I wish I had been as steadfast in my loyalty as she was. The most shameful mistake of my life is my betrayal of you, and the irreparable damage I caused, even if you were the only one who remembered. I am glad I know the truth now. You knew, and you forgave. You still called me friend. I could never have been as strong. You are a better man than I._

_I hope that you find your redemption. I willingly die for it. It's the least that I owe you. I ask only one thing, and it is of great importance to me. Forgive yourself, if only just a little. You are worthy of the reward you seek. Yes, you, the guy in the dark corner with the blood habit and the 200 years of psychic baggage. Like I said, get over it._

_ Wesley_

It was the signature that undid him, breaking that final thread that kept him from sinking into complete despair. He stared at the sheet, vision blurred by the tears that were now streaming freely down his face. The paper floated from his hands, rustling softly in the silence. His fists clenched. An inhuman sound escaped his lips, a moan of the most profound anguish. Suddenly, he lurched toward the wall, powerful arms and hands propelled as if possessed. Rapid-fire punches sent plaster and dust and wood up in a whirlwind around him, as he pummeled without heed. The skin of his hands broke, bleeding freely, and yet he carried on, feeling no pain except that within his shriveled heart.

***

She watched him from the doorway, each punch causing her chest to constrict painfully, but made no move to stop him. Instead, she quietly lifted the sheet from the floor and let her eyes wander the page. Tears trailed their way down her cheeks. She wished she had known _this_ Wesley, and felt the worse for never having had the honor.

She watched as his movements finally slowed, the sight of the hole in the wall as poignant as the hole in earth where her hometown had once stood. His bloody arms hung limply at his sides for a moment, and then he collapsed heavily onto the floor and landed on all fours. It was only then that she shrugged out of her trance and approached him. She leaned over his shaking form, fingers running through his hair. The dust and debris had settled there like grotesque snowflakes. She pressed herself to his back and held him tight. She didn't tell him it would be ok, knew how hollow those words were. Instead, she rubbed at the hairs on the nape of his neck, and whispered "I know Angel, I know" over and over again.


	10. Chapter 10 Haunted

**Chapter 10~ Haunted**

She felt a vibration, pulling at her from outside the haze. With an effort, Buffy allowed her mind to drift partly back into reality and assess the situation. Still wrapped around Angel, pocket pulsating demandingly. _I'm sleeping_, her mind pouted at the vibrating phone. She struggled through the cobwebs of sleep, pulling at the silken threads to find the names of potential callers tied to them. Dawn… Giles… Andrew… Willow… She rubbed her face in the cotton covering a broad back, material still warm from her own breath. _Angel_. A sigh escaped her lips, as the web tightened around her again. Another ring, and the phone settled in her pocket, as she settled into him. Whatever it was, it would just have to wait.

***

"This cannot wait!"

Giles slammed the phone down in frustration. Willow looked up from her book sympathetically.

"No luck, huh?"

He didn't respond, chewing thoughtfully on the ends of his glasses. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning the air in front of him as if desperately attempting to glean some information from the empty space.

"Giles, there's no reason to go all wiggy. We don't even really know anything. It's very much on the order of vague."

Giles looked at her sharply, and she was in high school again.

"You know better than that, Willow."

She nodded, drawn in by his urgency. She could feel the darkness vibrating through the core of her, the balance of the magicks of the Earth seriously disrupted. Something was coming, and even the power coursing within her veins wasn't enough to fend it off for long. The scales had tipped. But they had no idea what they were dealing with, when or how the attack would come. Until they knew, there was no way Buffy could help them. Willow wondered if, right now, trapped in such close proximity to what was bound to be a very broody Angel, Buffy could even help herself.

"Do you think she's ok? Being around Angel, I mean. It's been so long…"

Giles watched the worried face of the girl beside him. At the moment she looked young, so very young, and not at all like the poised and enormously powerful woman she had become. This was the old Willow, concerned for her friend, and his heart softened.

"I'm sure she's fine. It _has_ been a very long time. She is not a young girl any longer, and Angel is different as well. You told me so yourself."

"Some things don't change, Giles. Some things don't ever change."

An involuntary shudder ran through him. It was true, some things never changed. If the saga of Buffy and Angel picked up where it had left off, five years ago at the edge of a burning school, then the coming darkness would be the least of their worries.

***

He woke up in his bed. He didn't know how long they'd lain on the floor, her tiny body, somehow cradling his, or how Buffy had managed to hoist him up. He had no care to move, nowhere to move to. He lay very still, unblinking eyes staring at some point on the ceiling, and he saw Wes's words written there.

When she emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, the pull was too strong. Angel had to look, his eyes skimming the curves of her body, intent on knowing every inch of the new Buffy with the same intimacy he had known the previous incarnation of her. She smelled fresh and clean, like fruit and mist and sunshine. He smelled like death. He reeked of it, infecting others with his affliction. Suddenly, he didn't want to look at her anymore, didn't deserve to, and wished she were not there to remind him of what he could never have. To remind him of what he'd had once. He couldn't say the words though; asking her to leave required more strength than he was capable of at the moment.

Buffy came to his side and sat quietly. She was waiting for something, he realized, but couldn't quite grasp what. For him to speak? To tell her… what? Why he'd done it? How he felt? What Wes's letter had stirred up in him? He couldn't find the words, and so said nothing. The silence spoke volumes.

The minutes trickled by. Faith and Connor appeared, loitering in the doorway, unsure whether he needed company or to be left alone. He wasn't sure either. Buffy didn't give him a choice. She stayed by his side relentlessly, and it called to something so deeply within him that he would almost have rather had Spike haunting him again. Annoyance was better than undeserved affection. He managed it once, building the courage to tear himself apart.

"Buffy, you don't have to—"

"I'm staying." Categorical. Her face was infused with the same determination as when there was something to slay. The intensity was so startling, he could say nothing more.

***

She fidgeted in the chair across from the bed, trying to read a book she'd found that was in actual English. He found irony in the selection, more than she could ever imagine. Fate, predestination— what did they matter to him now? _Paradise Lost_. Oh yes. So much had been lost.

"_Long is the way- And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light_."

An absentminded whisper, more for his own benefit than for hers. She smiled sadly, stared at him until he was forced to return her gaze.

"_The strongest and the fiercest spirit- That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair_."

His face must have betrayed his shock, andshe pouted in affronted indignation.

"You could look a _little_ less stunned. I went to college, you know."

"Milton all the collegiate rage these days?"

Buffy went for nonchalance, shrugging mildly.

"No wiggle room when it comes to taking English Lit."

The look on her face was almost enough to make him feel something other than anguish.

"You actually did the assigned readings?"

"More or less."

"If I were a betting man, I'd put a hefty sum on 'less'."

She winked, obviously pleased at still having the ability to surprise him. It didn't matter that she had only read the Cliff's Notes, or that the entire premise of fate and redemption was just so tragically _Angel_. It only mattered that something had resonated. That she had a means by which to reach him, even if it was the words of a man dead longer than Angel himself that allowed her to breach the wall of pain and silence.

"I've never been to Heaven, Buffy." The knowledge that it was the last place he'd ever end up went upspoken.

"I have."

He flinched, just as he had the first time she had said it, on that off-limits-to-discussion day. When he'd thought he might lose his soul from the elation at the sight of her alive, only to be brought back to Earth by the haunted look in her eyes. She had been changed, not like _his_ Buffy at all, and he had known it. Why hadn't he done more to help her? So much could have been saved or spared, so much prevented. It was just one more entry in the long list of misdeeds he would never forgive himself for.

"I have, Angel," she repeated, as if she thought he hadn't heard. "I know what it's like to think you're sacrificing yourself for the greater good. Doing the only thing you can. I know how it feels when your big heroic deed doesn't turn out the way you expected it to."

He nodded, accepting the fact that, on some level, she understood. He wouldn't voice the knowledge that this was different; that while she at least now had confirmation that her final rest would bring her peace, his peace would never come. His name scrawled on a piece of parchment had eradicated any hope of that. Something like him would never wind up in the same place as Buffy, and such futile hopes had never been his driving force.It was his journey that mattered, and that path was now hidden from him, any sense of purpose forever vanquished with the stroke of a bloodied pen. _That_ fact he couldn't share with her, no more than he could explain how it felt to have taunted death and had it take those closest to you in your stead. Wes had written for him not to blame himself. That they knew what they were walking into. But how could they have known? How could he think he had prepared them?

"Stupid."

Buffy's sharp look made him realize that the word had slipped unbidden from his lips.

"You can be sometimes," she said. "But not about this, Angel."

She held his eyes for a moment, then added, "Plus, you're a guy. Stupidity comes with the choromosome. Learn to deal."

He smiled at her then, and it felt good, something long buried stirring deep within.

***

There was nothing to do but wait it out. She knew that with the clarity of an experience harshly and painfully acquired. Problem was, patience had never been Faith's strongsuit. She was a leap-into-action kind of girl, usually without thinking, and often with dire consequences. It had been Angel who had taught her to think things through, to breathe deep and meditate and plan ahead. It had been Angel who had taught her to survive prison. Not the lock-up, (she was more than capable of handling a bunch of psychotic estrogen rejects) but the prison she had constructed around herself with her mind. Repaying him, or starting to, had been easy when the currency was battle, when the exchange had been fighting her way out of Hell to help him escape. But this…What she saw in him now was a war no one could wage but himself, defeated and guilt-ridden as he was. She wanted to fight it for him, for a vampire who was, if no longer her only friend, certainly the best one she'd ever had. But she couldn't, and that made her antsy and pissed. There were other ways she could think of to help him take the edge off, but none Buffy wouldn't stab her for. Again. Besides, she'd accepted long ago that those kinds of thoughts about Angel were best left just that: thoughts.No matter what had happened over the years, Buffy still had a claim on him, and from what Faith could tell, he was more than content to let her.

Problem was, the obvious desire to jump his hot bod notwithstanding, she wasn't sure that Buffy could ever understand what tormented Angel's soul. She wished that the other slayer could pull him out of his bottomless despair, by whatever means necessary. But Faith had walked in his memories, down in the deepest shame of him, and with that brain tour had come a knowledge that Buffy didn't possess. If guilt for the deaths of strangers had reduced him to eating rats and boycotting hygiene, she shuddered to think how he would punish himself for the deaths of friends if left to his own devices.

Faith wondered what her role was destined to be in all of this, what part she had yet to play in Angel and Buffy's lives. Maybe, if she actually managed to be patient like he taught her, the redemption Angel had spoken of with such conviction would be finally within her reach.

***

"Bloody hell!" he growled, picking himself up off the ground. The vampire smirked and lunged again, disintegrating into dust as the blade cleanly separated neck from shoulders. Spike swiped a hand over his jacket to wipe away the offending residue. He swung as he heard a growl behind him, the sword again finding its mark.

"Is that all you got?" he asked the rain of ash as it dissolved.

It had been over far too quickly and, muttering softly to himself, he headed for the closest demon bar he could find. There was bound to be a demon to kill, evil to vanquish. If there wasn't, he would just have to get piss drunk. He was already more than halfway there.

Spike sniffed the air, picked an alley that seemed promising. This was how he dealt with his grief, potent and stifling. Overcome the toxin by purging it. Try not to think of it; an alley like this one, awash in rivers of blood. He wondered how Angel could stand it, knowing how very wrong it had all gone…

He could smell it before any other sense registered. Pungent, dizzying. His insides quivered in anticipation before the soul regained control again. Human fear. The sounds came next, a symphony of hisses and grunts punctuated by frightened cries. Then sight emerged, as the alley's dead end revealed a group of five Lei-Ach demons and their terrified prey.

"Hey," Spike called out to the closest demon as he sauntered down the alley, "why don't you go a round with someone your own size?"

Five sets of dark sunken eyes fixed on him with hatred, five black forked tongues snaking out with a hiss. The human couple, cornered against a brick wall, had the presence of mind to link hands and make their escape with nearly demonic speed.

"You'll pay for that, vampire."

They began to maneouver themselves to surround him, and Spike silently wished that it would at least amount to a decent brawl. He decided against getting his hopes up.

"Pay? I seem to be short on funds right now, mate. Take a raincheck?"

He anticipated the attack before it came, and deflected the arm coming towards him. Grabbing it, he swung the attached body into its approaching bretheren. They toppled like a stack of dominoes, and he was in the midst of it all, kicking out with booted feet until he heard the satisfying crunch of bone. He knew he'd lost his focus though, and suddenly someone swept out his leg from under him. Landing on his backside in the pile of demons, he laughed. This was going to be more fun than he thought.

Jumping up, he swung a fist at the face closest to him. Saw Angels's eyes as reality overwhelmed his elder back at the Hyperion, the moment when Spike himself had needed to make an escape. The eyes disappeared as his fist connected, another angry red welt forming on the pale skin that was already riddled with them.

Snaking his arm around the creature's neck, Spike wished he could forget the whole sodding mess of 'em.

He twisted, hearing the satisfying crack of severed bone.

_Saw in his mind's eye t__he former Watcher, nodding the silent farewell that would be his last. _

The next Lei- Ach got in one punch before his sword found its heart, blood spurting black and unnatural. Blood the wrong color.

_Gunn, the red stuff that really did belong on the inside__ marring his outside. _

The third demon restrained his arms behind his back as the forth tore into him, pummeling the muscle stretched taut and molded to his bones.

_Illyria's granite __fists connecting with his ribs, Fred whispering a promise of help. _

He used the muscles in his belly to lift both legs off the ground, arms still grasped by the demon. Kicked out at the one in front. Sent it sprawling down the alley. Twisted out of the grip that held him tight.

_The __dark Slayer, accidentally chosen, with whom he'd once shared a cigarette and a heart-to-heart. _

Sword, kicked up from the ground with a booted foot, was in his hand again. He struck backwards without looking, feeling the yield of muscle and bone to metal. Pulled the sword out with flourish, a smile curling his lips.

_The strange kid that smelled not quite human, and somehow oddly familiar. _

He ran to the one who was still on the ground, stood on his throat to crush it. Shoved the sword through its eye, and didn't wait to witness the death throes.

_The vampire he'd followed faithfully into battle, after having despised him for over a century. _

He saw the last one, or the first one maybe, not so cocky anymore.

"What was that you mentioned about me paying?"

The wise-crack was perfunctory, and didn't serve to make him feel any better. He didn't bother with any more pleasantries and decapitated the Lei-Ach in one forceful stroke, death passing, like a gift, from him to the demon. This last kill, like the others before it, was dulled by pain.

_Her. The Slayer with green eyes and sharp tongue, who still had him firmly by the short-hairs. _

He growled in frustration. Of all the things to fixate on, _again_. She had saved them both, or damned them both. Either way, she wasn't ignoring them the way she had in Rome. That had to mean something. Everything had changed. And yet nothing had. She still wasn't his. Would never be his. Despite having had her in every way imaginable (and he could be _very _imaginative) there had never been any illusions about that.

Some part of him had always known that there were times when another's name echoed inside her heart as he moved inside her body. On those nights, she would squeeze her eyes shut tightly, and her movements would slow and deepen, and he could feel the energy around her change. On those nights, she wouldn't ask him to hurt her, and he would know that she wasn't in his crypt or her town, but in another city, wrapped in the arms of another vampire.

His rival. His creator, his tormentor. That was different too. The same too. Hell and back, together. All they had in common was a soul and a slayer, yet they had come to understand one another better in one year than they had in the one hundred and twenty three that came before.

As the demon, Angelus had been both endlessly cruel and utterly captivating. Men, women, demons, the very world itself would spread like a cheap whore before him by the sheer power of his will. Spike had despised him, yes, but his price was no higher than any other's. Entranced by this unparalleled malice, he spread before Angelus too. The gypsy curse took from him a tyrant, a father, a tutor in the beauty of destruction and death. Dru may have turned him into a vampire, but it had been Angelus who had been his truest sire. That was irrelevant now, the days of craving gratification and approval at the feet of his monstrous idol a century gone. And yet…

In the last year, he had called him _boss_ and _big guy_ instead of just _ponce_ and _peaches_. He had stolen his favorite cars and weapons, picked fights and even won a few. He had haunted him and driven swords through his chest for fun. He had traveled to the ends of the earth with him, stared down a hole in the world, gotten drunk and mourned the fallen.

Which one of them did he need now? Her golden hair, with its promise of light, or his eyes, dark with knowing anguish? The bite of her sacrasm, or the stillness of his silence? Spike didn't know. But he didn't want to be out here any longer, alone with the ghosts.


	11. Chapter 11 Constant

**Chapter 11~ Constant**

_She steps into him. He trembles at the sensation of her so close, the smell of her fear, her arousal. He can't control it any longer, the demon within (laughing) taking complete control of his weakened body. Her body is pressed against his without shame, without hesitation, and he knows the fight has gone out of him. He feels his fangs lengthen and sharpen, pressing into her silken flesh. A second more of __resistance, and then it is gone, overpowered by her heady smell and the call of her blood (_Slayer_ blood). He sinks the points into her slowly. It fills his mouth and he nearly groans, the flood of her life force awakening and enthralling him like nothing before. It is strength and life and power, such power that he briefly wonders how it can be housed in such a tiny body, before all coherent thought is obliterated by the sticky sweetness. His legs can no longer support his weight, and they topple together onto the cold stone floor. The leather of her pants squeaks as he grinds into her (harder), her throaty gasps and fervent trembles driving him further into the abyss. He sucks greedily, and she shudders convulsively this time. (He'll remember the way she shudders until the day he's dust.) She is grasping for something; he hears the crunch of metal as her hand finds purchase. It is as she kicks out, smashing wood, that the orgasm overtakes her, infusing him with a dizzying rush when he tastes it in her blood (almost as good as feeling it from the inside). Of all the things he's ever known, this is the one that drives him to the edge of madness, the one that brings him the closest to bliss that he'll ever be. He is aroused too, harder than he has ever been in his long, long existence, and he can feel his own release on the horizon, and though it's not perfect happiness, it's pretty damn close (for the beast inside of him). But she's stopped moving now, stopped quivering, and her blood is flowing sluggishly, and when he tears himself away it's the most difficult thing he's ever done (so far. Walking away from her will be much more difficult, but he hasn't done that yet.) He stares at her, limp and pale, and as he struggles between his (still insistent) arousal and his (now) overwhelming fear, his greatest regret is saving himself at her expense. Her name escapes his lips in a broken sob as his mind solidifies the decision to leave, vowing that he will never put her in this position again. Even if he has to die. _

***

He sat bolt upright in bed, his head still reeling from the images. It had been long years since he'd dreamt of this, but the details were still perfectly etched into his memory. His eyes roved the room for her frantically, suddenly very grateful that she wasn't there when he noticed the uncomfortable evidence of his dream still on full display beneath his slacks. The throbbing was almost painful, but he welcomed it, savoring the long-suppressed emotions.

What had possessed him to dream of this now? Not merely her presence; he had been around her before without evoking that particular memory. Was it the guilt? The feeling of the greatest danger he had ever put her in, namely from himself, warning him that he was doing so again but in a different fashion? As long as Willow's spell held, they were all safe. But had he once again marked those closest to him for death when the Glamour collapsed? Was the dream a warning of the promises he had made to protect her, no matter what the cost? If he had no other purpose to his existence any longer, he would gladly take up the mantle of protecting Buffy. And Connor. And Faith. Protect them in a way he hadn't done for the others. He could live with being a bodyguard to the guardians of this dimension, even if he was no longer numbered among them. In his current state though, he wasn't much use to anyone. He still needed to mend and heal, still needed human blood and superhuman sparring partners. He also needed to stop getting erections at thoughts of an ex- girlfriend who would probably punch him if she knew where his mind had strayed. It was infuriating, the power she still had over him, to awaken the urges and desires no other woman could touch. He thought of the way she'd cradled him, slept by his side, and emotions he was too numbed by pain to let penetrate him earlier began to burrow to the surface. Stupid was right. He had inadvertently lied to Buffy when he said that he'd never been to Heaven. He'd been there. It was where he had lost his soul. It was a place he had, until recently, believed he'd revisit someday, when she was ready, and maybe, just maybe, when he was human. The humanity part could no longer be. Was she, too, woven into a destiny that was no longer his to claim?

Sounds pushed him out of his reverie. He could hear the hushed tones wafting up to him through the air. The words were too soft to make out, even to his vampire ears, but he knew the voices. Buffy. Spike.

So, his wayward grandchilde had come back. The strange notion of ease at that prospect startled him. But he hadn't been alone in that alley. At least Spike knew without explanation what lay behind the horror etched into Angel's face.

He wondered if Buffy would be at ease with it too. Wondered what it was like for her to be here with them. Her two resurrected demons. Despite himself, he wondered what she felt for Spike.

***

She felt him in the shadows.

Not the way she felt Angel, of course; every inch of her straining to be near him, every fiber of her being alive with the knowledge that he was within reach. This was different. Not Vampire/Slayer, the prey and the hunter. Not even a connection between old lovers who are still under each other's skin. She's wasn't sure what it was. Sometimes she wondered if it was the soul that made the difference. Always knew that she called out to him long before he had one. With Spike, it was something fierce and primal that snaked it's way up her spine. Something else too; an unspoken understanding. A shared strength. She had forgotten how that strength had grounded her in the days before she let him burn. Didn't realize until this very moment how much she had missed him.

"Rome looks good on you, pet."

No one's words could ever slice across her skin like Spike's. No one could ever put as much meaning behind them.

"Rome _feels _good. Mort sends his regards."

The cross of lines that ran through his brow dropped as he frowned in confusion. She had always thought it gave his face so much character, and nearly laughed with joy at seeing those small white lines again.

"Mort?"

She cast him a pointed glance. The scar angled sharply upward.

"The Immortal? He calls himself _Mort_?"

"He's big on the irony."

"Pretentious ponce," Spike snorted. "Didn't think he'd have the stones to tell you we were acquainted."

"Well, I kinda figured there was something when he practically got a happy telling me how you guys lost the Capo's head."

His teeth flashed white in the darkness.

"I hope you felt inclined to beat the rest out of him."

"No. But I did feel inclined to convince him to send the head to L.A."

"That was you?"

"What can I say? I have a way with morally ambiguous immortal guys."

Spike paused, watching her for a moment.

"Knew we were there, then?"

"What, because you guys are the stealthiest stalkers to ever stalk?"

"Hey! We were stalking with the best of 'em a century before you were a twitch in your daddy's knickers."

"Maybe you're getting rusty in your old age."

"You know better than anyone there's nothing rusty about me, luv."

She sighed in defeat.

"Ever notice that Webster's dictionary defines 'blabbermouth' as Andrew Wells?"

"Figured as much."

"But I _knew_, Spike. In that club. I felt it, even though I wasn't sure what _it_ was in the moment."

"_It_, Buffy, or _him_?"

It felt like an accusation.

"Well, it's not like spidey sense is an exclusive vamp thing. I've always felt him. Even before…" Her hand flew to her neck instinctively. Spike _tsked_, a quiet reprimand at being reminded of the mark. He had always avoided the evidence of that particular brand.

"Speaking of Captain Forehead— he around?"

"Upstairs. Being extra broody."

"Cut him some slack Buffy."

She couldn't have been more shocked if Spike had grown a second head.

"I'll take '_huh_?' for 500, Alex. You're _defending_ Angel?"

Spike sighed, grinned sheepishly.

"Well, I'm not gonna make a habit out of it! But the bugger slew a dragon. That's a helluva thing. Especially for a self-important nancy boy."

"That's the Spike I know and tolerate."

She glanced back toward the hotel, and the smile left her face. She shouldn't share this with him, even if he _was_ being uncharacteristically empathetic toward Angel. It was only when he spoke that she realized how much he understood. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten; Spike always saw things others didn't.

"You should understand what he's going through better than anyone Buffy. Imagine it: you know you're going to die. You're finished, done, the final curtain call. There is no more fear, no more pain. There is only the slick rain, the sharp blade in your hand, the battle cry on your lips. Going down in a blaze of glory. Is there any bigger turn-on for someone who fancies himself the world's champion? Present company excluded, of course."

Her sad, knowing smile prompted him to continue.

"But then, the Powers, they pull a fast one you see. You're not finished; you're in a whole new kind of Hell. And you think, I can deal. This is my final atonement. But it doesn't end there either. Strong hands reach in and pull you out, thinking they're _saving_ you. You're thrust back into a world you had already left behind, moved beyond. And now there is nothing _but_ pain, and fear. Nothing but the faces of those you sacrificed. And you realize, you can never be finished. It is your punishment. Because the hardest thing in the world is to live in it. Sound familiar, luv? Only _he_ has to live forever."

The truth of his words cut through her, deep down into the heart. For a moment, it hurt to breathe, as she felt the dirt in her throat, the wood of the casket splintering against her hands. The despair of no longer _knowing_, of no longer having a place in the world. Is that what Angel felt now? Pulled out of time and dimensions, with blood- soaked hands and ash filling his lungs?

She turned to Spike, his ice blue eyes seeing through her. It gave her comfort, the sight of him just as she remembered, a constant in the ever-changing world. He didn't look different; not like Angel.

"Where'd you pick up that snippet of wisdom for the ages?"

He smirked, stubbed out his cigarette.

"A woman I once knew."

"She must have been pretty smart."

"She was. When she wasn't being a royal bitch. But she forgot her own words. Had to remind her."

She watched him, the angles of his face sharp as cut glass. Alabaster skin beautiful in the moonlight. No matter what horrible things he had done, he had also pulledher back from the brink. It didn't absolve him, but it meant something. It meant a lot.

"I'm sure she was grateful, Spike. I'm sure it was the thing that saved her."

"I'm glad."

She took in a ragged breath.

"I wish I knew what he needed."

"Besides growing a pair?" That sardonic chuckle. Then, serious, "Time. A sense of purpose."

"I guess he didn't really expect to be back here among the living. No plan for what he would do."

"Well, you know, the git never was too bright. But I gotta tell you Buffy, I never saw the old man so happy as he was in that alley. Not since Romania anyway. And watching him slay that dragon? Really was a helluva thing."

As they sat in silence, she pictured it: _a great beast silhouetted against the sky, its leathery wings spread wide. It circles the alley drenched in rain, predatory neck craned, smoke billowing from its nostrils. It lunges at a figure, so small by comparison, down on the ground, but he's gone in a swirl of leather. His powerful hands cling to a ladder, inching upwards with preternatural speed, and soon he stands on the roof of a building. The leather of his coat billows around him, as the leather of the wings bring forth a gust of foul air. There is water in his eyes, and he grins, his teeth shining like the sword in his hand. The beast hovers in the air before him, gold eyes meeting brown, monster to monster, each seeing the worth of their adversary. He bellows, the avenging angel, and lunges, tarnished sword in one hand, sacred blade in the other. In the air, they clash, and he digs in his heels and makes the dragon his Pegasus. The long neck cranes towards the unruly rider, but cannot reach, and then the blood spurts from it from around the blade, and they are barreling towards the ground, two demons tangled together, the shrill screech of death mingling with the roar of triumph. _

She shook her head to clear the thought, wishing she had been there to _see _it and not just imagine. Felt Spike next to her, the weight of his silence more probing than any question he could have asked. Buffy took a breath, took the plunge.

"He… Wes left him a letter."

Spike sucked in an unneeded breath, nodded, the light casting strange patterns in the brightness of his hair.

"How is he?"

She looked at him, shook her head softly.

"Broody bastard." There was no trace of mockery in Spike's voice.

"I'm sorry about your friends," she told him. He nodded.

She felt like she was back on her porch at Revello Drive. They sat together, looking at the moon quietly, just as they had many times before. She still found a strange sort of calm in his presence.

"I'm glad you're alright, Spike."

"Me too."

Another long silence stretched between them.

"I meant what I said before….in the Hellmouth."

"I know, luv."

"I love you. Just not the way you want."

"I know, luv."

There were no more words.

***

Pacing the floor like a caged animal by the time she finally came back to the room, he didn't waste any time in asking.

"What did Spike want?"

"God, Angel! What did I tell you about that sniffing people thing?"

Angel chuckled softy, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes.

"I _heard _him, Buffy. Remember, vampire hearing?"

"Oh." She sounded contrite. "He wanted to see you."

Dark eyebrows arched quizzically.

"Really? I highly doubt _I_ was the one he wanted to see."

She didn't blush, didn't fluster. There was no shame in her voice or body language. Whatever the relationship between her and Spike had been, whatever it amounted to now, she obviously felt no conflict about it.

"Well, he did ask about you. May have mentioned something about… Oh yeah, 'a manly session of getting piss drunk and smashing things'." Buffy smiled. "You two get drunk together on a regular basis or something?"

"No. Just the once or… twice." Angel suddenly seemed very defensive.

"Hey, don't get defensive with me buddy. I was the one who told you he was different now, remember?" She stared at him, and very suddenly doubled over, her whole body shaking with laughter. "I can just see it now. You and Spike… sitting around your fancy L.A. digs… wasted… arguing about…anything… everything…" She could barely get the words out between her giggles.

"Cavemen and astronauts."

She had no idea what that meant, but for some reason that made her laugh even more. She looked at Angel, and for the briefest of moments imagined that a smile may have played on his lips.

"So, why did he leave?"

Buffy's hands wiped away the tears of laughter as she finally managed to calm herself.

"I told him you weren't up to visitors just now." _I'm not ready to share you yet_, she thought silently.

"You could have gone with him." She heard no anger or resentment in his voice, only curiosity.

"Yeah, ok, Angel. Demon pub crawl? Not exactly on the forefront of my 'To Do' list just now."

He just looked at her, wordlessly prodding.

"Faith was more than happy to step in. Minus the manly part, of course."

This time Angel did laugh, a soft, tentative sound.

"She has seemed a bit restless, hasn't she?"

"Who, Faith? You _have_ met her, right?" Buffy stopped, then added a little more earnestly, "Well, the girl has been hanging out on a Hellmouth for a while. No rest for the wicked Slayer."

He stared at her hard for a moment, taking in her fuller figure, her tanned skin, her sun-bronzed hair.

"And you, Buffy? You look…. rested." _Beautiful. Breathtaking._ He didn't dare voice those words.

It took a force of sheer slayer strength to keep herself from flushing under his intense stare. She remembered him looking at her like this, lust beneath his hooded eyes, stripping away cloth and flesh with that gaze until she felt like he could see into the very core of her. Never had she felt more naked, more exposed.

"Yeah, you know, when in Rome…"

"Go clubbing with the Immortal?"

She looked at him sharply, hardening a little. But there was still none of that jealousy from him that she had expected, only impassivity and a hint of sadness. He was still good with the cryptic, could still frustrate her with his seeming lack of emotion. She wondered if it only seemed like he didn't care, or if he actually no longer did.

"That's not really any of your business." Her tone was clipped, more from anxiety than from anger. It really _wasn't_ his business, he had no right to judge her, and yet all she could seem to care about was the fact that he wasn't jealous. Maybe he really had moved on.

It was a thought she had never considered before, never dared to consider in all the years gone by. Whatever else had happened, he had always been there. There were the good times, and the horrific ones. There was slaying and death and other men and another vampire. There was afterlife and resurrection. There were demons to kill and battles to fight. There was always another apocalypse around the corner. And there was always him, in her heart. Two constants, like death and taxes. Apocalypse and Angel. Without one or the other, her world could never make sense.

He answered mildly. "You're right, it's not." For some reason, this response seemed to agitate her even further.

"You two have some nerve, you know that? I mean, charging over like a pair of demented knights in billowy armor to rescue poor little Buffy! You, with your, 'I'm not getting any older' crap. And don't even get me started on Spike."

He fought to maintain control over his voice, and failed. Badly.

"We thought you were in danger! How were we supposed to know you were…doing the wacky with him?!?"

"The wacky? Angel, what the…"

_Love makes you do the wacky._

Her hands flew to her mouth as the realization suddenly dawned on her. She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both, simultaneously.

"You think that…?" She couldn't even finish the sentence, because it seemed too ridiculous.

"We kept trying to figure it out. How he got to you, if he was controlling you. And then Andrew told us. You fell for him all on your own. You were happy."

He could never explain to her how that had made him feel. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted it more than anything else. It was what had enabled him to walk away and stay away. But how could she be happy with the Immortal? Never mind that he was a bastard. That certainly hadn't been the normal future he had envisioned for her.

Buffy watched him struggle with his emotions, push them down, keep them down. She could never explain to him how she felt. The freedom of finally doing what she wanted, the burden of the world no longer solely on her small shoulders. He wanted her to have a normal life. But she was a slayer. Her life would never be, could never be normal. She had learned to accept that. Why hadn't he?

"Angel… sure I was happy. I finally had the chance to live on my own terms. I got to go out and dance without looking for the Big Bad around every corner. The Immortal… he was fun, exciting. He's not like anyone I've ever met. But it's not…what you think. Not even close."

"Oh? The Immortal wasn't eating cookie dough?"

She flushed at the reminder of her analogy.

"Am I ever going to live that cookie thing down?"

Angel shrugged mildly, his shoulders easing from their tense set. He moved to stand closer to the window, feeling the call of the moon. He should be out there, cloaked in night, helping the hopeless, instead of having this pointless conversation with her….

"Angel."

Her hand fluttered at his back, tentative, barely touching. But she said his name like she always had; a soft, throaty whisper, as if the weight of the word could sum up all that she felt for him.

"Buffy."

It was their usual exchange. It rolled off his tongue, sacrosanct, and it felt like a caress.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the breadth of his back. She could feel the coolness of him, even through the fabric of the sweater. A tremor ran through him, and she wondered if it was from the contact or because he could hear the pounding within her chest.

"What are we even arguing about?" she whispered.

"I don't know." His voice was soft, laced with sadness. "It doesn't matter."

She felt him shift, his body turning slowly to face hers. His eyes were hooded, darker than she had ever seen them, and her breath caught as he hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face. The pull of him, as strong as ever, was too much to resist. He knew her too well to miss the flash in her eyes.

His hand moved to her cheek, brushing his fingers against the skin gently, feeling the warmth and the shudder as it passed through her and into him. He held her gaze as he inched forward, slowly, deliberately, barely glancing her lips with his. He lingered for a moment, savoring the jolt that worked its way through him, and then molded his mouth fully to hers.

Her lips were pliant, responsive. The taste of him, intoxicating and familiar, overwhelmed her senses. Her tongue darted out, grazing against his teeth, trying to deepen the kiss. And then, somehow, the gentleness became a hunger, and something in the pit of her stomach lurched, the intensity jarring her away. She stared into his eyes, heart in her throat, seeing the question there, the unrelenting desire. Suddenly, the sight of him frightened her more than any monster or demon she had ever faced. She backed away even as he reached for her, all but running from the room, relieved when he made no move to follow.


	12. Chapter 12 Hunting Darkness

**Chapter 12~ Hunting Darkness**

"Not fair."

Spike licked his lips.

"What?"

"This. Vamp taste buds, vamp tolerance. You're already two up on me."

In the end, they had settled on a human bar. Less entertaining, to be sure, but also less suspicious glances cast at a slayer and a vampire acting decidedly less than antagonistic towards each other.

Faith downed her shot and bit into the lime, squeezing her eyes shut against the sour taste.

"Life isn't fair pet. You can bend over and take it or bend over and enjoy."

The Slayer's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

"That's a hell of a motto Spike. I can see why our favorite blonde got her jollies off with you."

He studied the drink in front of him, pursing his lips forward in a thoughtful pout.

"Yeah well, not much hope for an encore there. Not with Mr. Chairman of the Boring back in the picture."

"Hey man, whatever you say. I'm going to go ahead and tap myself out of any conversation involving the star-crossed lovebirds. Not really looking to reenact my stint as roadkill on the Buffy and Angel highway."

"Think you've got problems? Try listening to the Neanderthal blather on about their 'forever love'. Almost enough to make a man stake himself."

She turned to regard him with amused eyes.

"You know, I don't think you hate Angel nearly as much as you pretend to. In fact, I think you might kinda like him a little."

This was rewarded with a "Pfft" and a significant eyeroll. Faith poked one finger into a leather-clad arm.

"Come on, admit it Blondie. It might take a century, but the big guy kinda grows on you."

"Yeah, like a bleedin' fungus," he said, before downing another shot.

***

Buffy quickened her pace down the darkened street, glancing behind as if expecting the rollercoaster of emotions to come barreling after her. All she could think of was how fast her legs could carry her away. Away from the hotel that housed him, away from his penetrating eyes and knowing hands and skilled lips. Unfortunately, she couldn't get away from herself. What _was_ this? One kiss, and she was reduced to that silly sixteen year old girl who stole away midnight smoochies and sewed her eyes shut with love. One kiss, and it all slammed into her again, dreams of a future that just wasn't possible for them.Damn him for kissing her like that! He would probably say that he was already damned. And it wasn't as if she hadn't invited it, clinging to him and touching him as if they were still _that_ to one another. As if being around him like this, even after all this time, wouldn't have consequences.

The last time she had kissed him, to prove just how happy she was to see him on the eve of her battle with the First, there had been no thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow wasn't a given; at the time, it had barely been a possibility. There had only been the vague notion of someday, maybe, somewhere beyond the Apocalypse. That uncertainty— of the fate of the world, of her own survival— had allowed her to press herself to him without shame and without regret, kissing the world away for a moment in the safety of his arms. And then tomorrow had come, and victory, and Europe beckoned instead of L.A. There was always that 'someday' waiting for her, just over the horizon. Until the moment he was gone, and so was someday, and she had been lost without a future she hadn't known she was hoping for. She realized now, that from the moment she pulled him out of Hell, their collision had been an inevitability.

She walked faster.

***

"So, you and Angel… never…?"

The vampire's words were slightly slurred.

"Naw man."

"Not one single friendly snog amidst all those conjugal visits?"

"No, Spike." Popping a swizzle stick into her mouth, she added, "Don't get me wrong, the man is definitely the whole package. Well, minus a heartbeat, but who's paying attention to that right? But he, uh, he could never see me that way. And if he did, Buffy would probably put me in another coma."

"What is it with the poof? Surrounded by beautiful women, and the bugger can't be bothered. Well, except for the time behind the couch with..."

A well-plucked brow arched curiously.

"Nevermind."

Faith slung her arms across the back of her seat, stretching the legs lying on the barstool at Spike's side. Her feet curled downward as her back arched towards the ceiling, and Spike smirked at the appreciative stares his companion received from a significant portion of the establishment's male patronage.

"So, lemme ask you something. You been around, what, 150 years or so? Is Angel really the only thing you got to talk about?"

"You seemed pretty focused on him yourself, Slayer."

"Well, consider me un-focused." She paused, eyeing him with thoughtful wonder. "So, you've been pretty much everywhere, haven't you?"

"Took a lovely vacation to Hell just the other week."

"I've never really been anywhere. Trailer park, Hellmouth, coma, jail, Hellmouth again. Not much with the sightseeing."

He nodded, took a drag of his cigarette.

"I hear the Cleveland Hellmouth is nice this time of year."

Faith looked at him earnestly.

"Tell me about the things you've seen, Spike."

"Well, there was this angry mob in Prague—"

"Minus the murder and mayhem."

"You do know I'm a vampire, right?"

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips.

"Alright, just forget it then."

"Bugger, Slayer. There's no need to get melodramatic."

He took another long drag of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in a series of wispy ringlets.

"Angel ever tell you about the scam we pulled in Budapest?"

Spike told her. Told her the tales that started out amusing and left out the bloody entrails, or the tales where the bloody entrails weren't human. Faith appreciated his restraint and said so. They could have stayed that way until last call, chasing shots with stories, bound by a history of murder and a search for redemption.

"So he just split? Stiffed you on the dough?"

"Eleven bloody pounds!"

"Damn. I thought Dracula was supposed to be all… not a loser."

"Don't believe everything you read, luv."

"Hey, have you ever seen—"

But Spike was no longer listening. He was focused intently on a conversation floating to him from the back of the bar, bits and pieces invading the edges of his potent hearing. Slowly bringing his finger to his lips, he darted his eyes in the direction of the conversationalists. Faith, interest piqued, maneuvered her way to the end of the bar closest to the spot Spike had indicated. She could see the men- and they _were _men- all greasy hair and yellowed teeth, enveloped in a haze of cigarette smoke. The words were audible, but just barely.

"Don't know nothin' but what I hear."

The man's voice was raspy from long years of assault by smokes and booze. His face too, round and oily, bore the marks of a hard- lived life. His rotund physique was barely concealed by a cheap leather jacket two sizes too small, and dirty fingernails tapped against the mug he held as he talked. The other was the exact opposite, as if in some sort of comedy sketch, small and lean, with eyes and hands that twitched nervously. He reminded Faith of a cockroach.

"But after what that crazy sonofabitch did to Wolfram and Hart, do you really think—"

"We're not paid to think. And if you keep runnin' your mouth..." Eyes shooting daggers, the fat man leaned into his companion's ear and whispered. Whatever he said couldn't have been good, because Twitchy paled visibly. The back table sank into a sullen silence for several minutes, and was finally abandoned by the comically odd duo.

The Slayer's dark eyes, sharpened by adrenaline, flew to Spike's across the length of the space that separated them. The vampire, sober now, nodded a silent acknowledgement. They paid their tab and slipped quietly into the night, two hunters hot on the trail of their prey.

***

The more she walked, the more she remembered how much she disliked L.A. It felt impersonal, anonymous. Like you could be lost walking down you own street. And sure, dark, dank alleyways came with the slayer gig. But was it really too much to ask for a quaint little cemetery, maybe with a crypt? Buffy in no way longed for 'Sunnydale- Home of the Hellmouth', but she missed its small town compactness. As far as evil infested places went, at least it had warmth and character. Rome, too, was different. "A touch of the old world," Giles had said, and he had been right. She could see the hold that ancient glamour held over some of the older vamps. The blood lines still held sway and import there, unlike in the New World. She had studied them, amused by the idea of a vampire aristocracy. The Master's lineage had been of particular interest to her. The vampire elite: The Order of Aurelius. She had purged the world of that accursed line. Only three remained. Drusilla. Spike. Angel. Maybe someday, there would be only two. Maybe not. Such was life.

Life. At least she had one now. Even though it still revolved around all things mystical. Even though living in sunlight and freedom just wasn't enough without at least a couple of nights of slaying a week. Even though the human boyfriends never lasted as long as the non-human ones.

"_Why do you always want to boink undead guys?"_

_Dawn's question prompted Andrew to choke on his Corn Flakes. It reminded Buffy so much of Xander, and in that moment she missed her friend so desperately, that she was struck momentarily speechless. Dawn, as she often did, took the lack of response as an invitation to continue._

"_I think it's because your inner Id never really got over Angel, and you were always trying to get as close to him as possible. Hence, sleeping with someone who slept with Angel's sire, and a vampire he sired himself. Well, sort of sired. Grandsired. Is that a word?"_

_Buffy didn't resist the compulsion to tell her sister to drop Intro to Psychology, and fled from the kitchen._

It wasn't like she went around thinking _all _undead were hotties. Just two particular vampires, and one… whatever the hell the Immortal was. She had her reasons, her darker urges that no human could hope to satisfy. Deep down, she had known that Dawn's assessment was correct, and yet had stubbornly refused to admit it to herself.

"Hey!"

Suddenly, she wasn't thinking about Angel anymore, which was a good thing, but it was only because something had grabbed her from behind, which was a bad thing. A distracted slayer was a sloppy slayer, and sloppy usually equalled dead. Buffy really wasn't in the mood to die a third time. She grabbed the hand clutching at her throat and pulled the fingers back forcefully, hearing bones crack. The hand vanished, and she spun around, poised and ready. She found herself face to face with a man of about twenty, tall, and muscular, his face handsome with its sharp angular features. He could have been any of a hundred other L.A. guys, a would-be actor or musician perhaps, but the tingle threading its way through her skin told her he was something else entirely.

He touched the broken fingers gingerly with the other hand, conforting her with affronted eyes.

"Well what'd you do that for?"

"Gee, I dunno, maybe 'cause of the grabby?"

He smiled, showing a hint of fang.

"It's not every day you get the chance to sneak up on a Slayer. Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Yes, I can. I can completely blame a guy for trying! Besides, I don't want you thinking you can just sneak up on me. I'm not some newbie."

The vamp lunged at her, but Buffy grabbed the extended arm and used his own momentum to flip him onto his back. She wouldn't stake him yet; the only thing that could erase the bitterness of her completely amateur carelessness was a drawn out kill. A dance to the death (she thought it was rather poetic), and she hoped this vamp could deliver.

He was back on his feet and circling her within seconds. _Good_.

"You were really out of it back there, you know. Couldn't believe it when I felt the slayer vibe."

"You're big on the insult to injury thing, aren't you?"

She swung a right hook, and he twisted out of the way, connecting a backhand to the side of her head.

"Just the injury part. What's the deal, Slayer? Having some guy troubles or something?"

Buffy momentarily dropped her guard.

"How did you know that?"

He smiled again, less menacing this time.

"Human, demon— it's the only thing that gets to all of us like that. Makes us lose our focus, do stupid things."

Buffy sighed.

"What is it about exes that just messes with your head?"

"Hell if I know. My last girlfriend was a vengeance demon, so she _literally_ messed with my head. As in, tried to remove it."

Buffy's memory supplied the image, vividly and with great sadness, of the last vengeance demon she had known. Of what Xander had lost. Suddenly, her own jumbled feelings weren't so critical anymore. Not when she and Angel had both lost friends they hadn't gotten to bury. Suddenly, being psychoanalyzed by a vampire (again! What _was _it with waxing introspective around the undead?) seemed silly when she could just kill it.

"Ok, done with the mopefest. Gonna have to get on with the slaying now. You understand."

The vampire shook his head, chuckling softly.

"Unbelievable. And I thought I had issues."

He morphed into vampface as he grabbed for her. Buffy spun away, hand whipping out from the waistband of her jeans. She clutched the familiar object, the weapon of her trade, and felt her blood stir. He came at her again, and this time she let him. Her fingers closed around his neck as they collided, and the wood in her right hand found its mark. His face betrayed surprise as he crumbled around her, done in by the tiny human whose strange shift in mood had given him whiplash.

"Stake in the heart… seems like an issue."

They were the last words he ever heard.


	13. Chapter 13 Chasing Light

**So sorry for the long delay in updates. Real life kind of got the best of me. I hope there are people still reading and enjoying this fic :)**

* * *

**Chapter 13~ Chasing Light**

He was trapped in a vicious tangle of indecision.

Ever since she had run out of here as if nothing had ever frightened her more than kissing him, he had remained rooted to the spot. Transfixed. Astounded. And more than a little turned on. What in the name of Hecate had possessed him in that moment; propelling him to reel her in and hold her tight, to instigate that assault on her delectable mouth? Had it been jealousy over Spike, over the words that seemed to flow so easily between them, while he could barely bring himself to string a sentence together these days? Had it been that irrational sense of possessiveness that sometimes reared its ugly head inside him— his entirely hypocritical judgment of the life she had created, because he had sacrificed everything for her to have said life and had somehow gotten it into his thick skull that he had any say at all in _how_ she lived it? Had it been the call of the moon stirring something within him, making him ache to feel a little like his old self again? Or had it been simply because she was Buffy, and he still wanted her like he had never wanted anything else in his entire existence? He couldn't answer. It didn't matter. The bottom line was that he _had_ kissed her. That the fire that raged between them still burned, still hot enough to consume them both. She'd run out the door before they'd gone up in flames, and that was probably a wise idea. The wisest idea right about now, he suspected, would be a very cold shower.

And yet…

And yet the demon inside him had unfurled its claws, testing. His arm was still a mangled mess, taking far too long to heal for his liking. His shoulder hadn't mended completely. He still slept more than he ever had unless severely injured. But the need to hunt, to fight, to exercise that re-sparked heat simmered within him. If he couldn't be here with her, he longed to be out there, stalking the things that went bump in the night. It was that damn moon calling to him again, beckoning him with her siren song. Reason told him, lay low, stay here, rest. Wait for Buffy. But his gut, that part of him he had come to know and trust over decades of it being his only companion, the part of him that saw his basest urges through unfiltered eyes, marshaled him out into the darkness.

_Go. Fight. Be what you are— the thing in the darkness that demons fear._

The eternal struggle between brain and brawn raged on, locking him in place. Hence, the indecision.

"Angel?"

Well, that settled the issue of whether or not to continue standing around like an idiot. He turned towards the voice in the doorway.

"Where is everyone?"

Angel cleared his throat, testing a voice he wasn't sure would obey.

"Illyria's disappeared somewhere. Faith went out with Spike."

Connor stared, then let out a whoop of laughter.

"Oh, that'll definitely end well." A small, sly smile claimed his mouth. "And Buffy?"

Sighing, Angel ran restless fingers through his hair.

"She went out."

Connor shook his head, the hair falling into his eyes. Angel considered suggesting he cut it, then remembered his place. He'd already crossed enough lines for one night.

"What'd you do?"

Angel made a face, offended.

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Well, lets see…. She's been practically glued to your side for the last three days. Now all of a sudden, she's not here. You're moping. But you didn't do anything. Right, Dad. Next you'll tell me you're not really a vampire."

The word had slipped unconsciously from Connor's lips. Angel felt it run through him, all the way down to his toes, reverberating to his very soul.

_Dad_.

It lifted his spirits in a way nothing else could. Shaking off the uncertainty, he let his hand rest on his son's shoulder, guiding him gently towards the door.

"Come on. Lets get out of here."

"Now you're talking! Where to?"

"We'll see where the night takes us."

***

They wore the darkness as if it were tailored to them. The shadows embraced them in their pursuit, cloaking each silent step.

"No offense, but I really wish your hair wasn't so radioactive."

Spike's hand instinctively reached to pat the gelled mass on top of his head.

"Well, what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, if you're trying to draw as much attention to yourself as possible."

"Now you're getting it. Whoever said slayers were slow on the uptake?"

"You're also blinding me."

They both fell silent, staring thoughtfully at the building across the alleyway. It had been about ten minutes since the strange duo had entered, and the time had come to make a decision about the next move.

"So, we waiting for Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum to come out, or can we get this show on the road?"

Spike looked around, smiling to himself. It wasn't often that _he _was the rational, patient one.

They eyed the large iron door speculatively. Graffitied slang and obscenities marked the building's exterior, the street housing it a playground for elements of L.A.'s seedy underbelly. The muck beneath the glamour, this was a place that even the demons deemed beneath them, leaving it to monsters of the human variety. Faith sighed. No matter how many supernatural uglies they felled, no matter how many apocalypses they thwarted, humankind would still continue to race headfirst towards its own destruction. She hated them for it.

"There's the girl whose cautionary tale they tell young unruly slayers everywhere. I was wondering if I would ever have the pleasure."

Faith scowled. He seemed to be reading her mind, digging deep into her darkness. Buffy had been right; Spike's perceptiveness was both strangely comforting and endlessly irritating. She looked at him, brown eyes boring into blue, sensing the intensity that stretched like a tightrope between them.

"You play your cards right," she answered seriously, fearless in maneuvering that narrow tautness, "and the _pleasure_ might be mutual."

His eyes widened slightly, the moment charged with something beyond the playful tequila-soaked banter of earlier in the evening. The cocky smirk that was becoming so familiar touched his lips, and an irrational desire to trace it with her tongue flared hot in her belly. She smirked back.

What was it about these damn souled vamps that stirred her blood dark and dangerous?

He read her mind again.

"Take what you want later, Slayer," and his voice was cool water streaming across scorching flesh.

She made a mental note to keep him to that statement, and took the lead.

***

It was an old warehouse, left now to the business of junkies and smugglers. It reminded her of a battle fought and lost not long ago, of the Beast and Angelus, and foreboding flooded her senses. Spike saw the sudden tension, the muscles jumping beneath her skin. He rested a hand briefly on her shoulder, reminding her that he was there. That she had backup. In a rare moment of wavering confidence, she longed for that old reckless fearlessness, the one buried somewhere in the crater of Sunnydale with an exploded bomb and a handful of dead girls. She'd have to settle for what was left. Taking a deep, calming breath, she forged on.

They were in a large open space, scattered into makeshift tunnels by hundreds of boxes and crates stacked twenty feet high. The smell of excrement assaulted their nostrils, and rats skittered between their feet, small gray armies in search of sustenance. The lazy trickle of dripping water echoed through the windowless space.

"Damn," Faith muttered. "Why does it always have to be rats?"

"Sets the proper mood, if you ask me."

He sensed them first, just at the periphery of his hearing. Motioning to Faith, he set out towards the sounds, astounded when her hand gripped his arm through the leather.

"I know you won't like it Spike, but you need to hang back and let me deal with this."

He stared, aghast.

"The hell I do."

She tried again.

"You can't come out there."

"The hell I can't." The tone was even more petulant.

"Man, you XY types are all the same. No matter how old you get, you're still giant babies." Faith let the sharpness seep out of her voice. "Look. What if those chumps actually do have some tie to Wolfram and Hart, or know someone who does? Wouldn't be too smart to have them face to face with a suspiciously pale bleached blond, in a leather duster, who just happens to have a bite fetish. People tend to remember things like that."

"As gratifying as it is to know that you find me memorable, I think—"

"Don't _think_ Spike. Do what I ask. Just this once."

The look in her eyes told him this was non-negotiable. And since he wasn't in the mood for a tussle with a pissed off slayer, at least not the kind of tussle he was on the verge of inciting, he testily conceded the point.

"So, how are you going to play this?"

"I was thinking maim first, ask questions later."

"Thought you'd gone cold turkey with the human torture bit."

"For these two losers, I'd gladly take a dive off the wagon."

She moved away from him, down the path she would walk alone.

"Good luck," he called out, and meant it. Then, "You sure you got it then?"

Her voice floated back to him, soft, deadly.

"Five by five."

He melted back into the familiar arms of the shadows, acutely aware of the potential danger of setting Faith loose on the humans. No matter how securely caged, the demon still lurked inside, always on the lookout for a means by which to escape.

***

She sauntered into the open space as if she were doing nothing more taxing than enjoying a midday stroll. The targets she had been tracking half the night could be seen about fifty feet ahead, attempting to move a large crate across the concrete vastness. Her step was light, carefree, and she whistled softly. The men looked up at the sound of the footsteps, surprise written plainly across their faces.

"Good evening boys."

She was all business, voice as sharp as a knife. But they didn't know. All they saw was a pretty girl, alone in the dark.

"You lost girlie?" The fat one. Already, his eyes held a predatory gleam.

Faith looked around, motioned with her arms expressively.

"Just checkin' the place out. Quite a lovely dump you have here. And trust me, I know from dump."

The smirk left the portly face, features reordered into dismay and anger. The other hadn't moved, but was now beginning to inch backwards, a deer knowing danger by nothing more than its basest instinct to survive. The other had no such intuition. He stepped towards her.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? This place is off limits. Or maybe," his voice dripped with meaning as he moved forward again, "you want us to show you what we do with trespassers."

His partner's voice, pitched high in fear, cut through the air.

"Frank, maybe—"

"Shut up Ray! I can handle one little who—"

Her hand shot out before the word could leave his mouth, closing around his throat in a vicelike grip.

"You were saying, _Frank_?" She used his name pointedly. He struggled in her grasp, hands flailing out uselessly, clawing at her, his fat physiognomy turning crimson. Ray, for his part, turned and ran off into the tunnels. Faith could hear his footfalls echo throughout the expanse, fading. Suddenly, the sounds of a struggle, followed by a weight hitting the floor. She hissed through clenched teeth. So, Spike was only _mostly_ staying out of this.

A pitiful croak drew her attention back to the task at hand. She gave his trachea one last painful squeeze, then released him with a force that sent him stumbling backwards. Landing on hands and knees on the cold concrete, he succumbed to a fit of coughing. Looking up at her through bleary eyes, he thought he could manage a few hoarse words.

"What do you want?" Voice like sandpaper.

"Information."

He laughed, bringing on more coughing. Retching too, but Frank didn't care. He had been around the block a few times. A few blocks, actually. He knew this city, this world. Bitch wasn't gonna get nothin' outta him.

"Don't know nothin'."

Her dark eyes narrowed, the only sign of the turmoil raging within. He knew that look too well; punks who couldn't hold their wad, anger management issues. Mouth open to say so, he closed it again, the words dying in his throat. The power that radiated from her set his teeth on edge. He shuddered.

"Don't know nothin'," he repeated, although she hadn't said anything. There was less conviction behind it this time.

Hands, impossibly strong, yanked him up by his collar. Gripping the back of his neck roughly, she pulled him to his feet. Warm breath caressed his face, escaping lips that were mere inches away.

"Let me put it this way Frank."

The dagger appeared suddenly, lighting in her hand. In the next instant, the blade was at his neck, pressure applied, curved steel biting into the tender flesh. He shuddered again, and felt the warm trickle from where the metal had made its mark. And when she spoke again, beautiful lips belying the coldness of her voice, he knew that she had inflicted true suffering. That she was more than willing to inflict it again.

"You talk fast, I play nice."

He told her everything. Eventually. Not soon enough. When he finally did, his anguished cries still bounced off the brick walls, obscuring the words.

***

She left him bound and gagged somewhere in the tunnels, and headed the way she had come. The stillness only amplified the screaming inside her head, getting louder the more she tried to push it away. So it was a relief when he appeared before her, the creature of darkness who wielded his words like a weapon. He had leapt off his perch ten feet off the ground, duster catching the wind around him like a cape. She smiled at the thought. Spike the Superhero.

"Nice work." He eyed her seriously, looking for… something she couldn't quite grasp.

"For all the good it did." She couldn't meet his gaze. "He's not exactly privy to the plans for world annihilation."

"We know more than we did two hours ago. Got someplace to start, now."

She bumped his shoulder with hers, grateful.

"Do we tell Buffy?"

Spike mulled it over, shook his head.

"Not yet. Let her babysit Peaches a while longer. I'll follow up on what that bloke said, sniff out if there's anything to it."

They headed toward the Hyperion, racing against the coming dawn.

The silence became too much again.

"You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Spike."

The words were jovial enough, but the vampire looked at her strangely, almost like he knew that what she really meant was that she had enjoyed this just a little too much.

***

Back in her bed, Faith lay awake for a long time, watching the sun rise over the city, a bright yellow fire consuming the sky. She was beginning to forget what it looked like, she realized, beginning to forget the feel of its warm caress across her skin.

For the first time, she understood Angel with perfect clarity.

Between the light imprinting itself on her retinas and the guilt imprinting itself on her soul, it was a long time before she drifted off into a restless sleep.


	14. Chapter 14 The Night In Question

**Chapter 14~ The Night In Question**

The night, as it turned out, didn't take them anywhere good.

They had barely made it five blocks, and Angel already found that calling Connor talkative was like someone referring to himself as slightly reserved. No wonder Buffy and his son got along so well.

"It was completely ridiculous!"

"Why did you take cultural anthropology in the first place?"

Connor ducked his head for a moment, then glanced at Angel sheepishly.

"Ah," Angel chuckled. "What's her name?"

"That's not the point."

"Ok. What is the point?"

Connor let out an exasperated sigh.

"The _point_ is that it's a very valid topic for a paper. And the professor just dismissed it!"

"Connor, you can't just tell an academic that you want to study a group of people that worship vampires."

"But you see how it could be cool, right?"

The memory was vivid; just a few years was nothing compared to the centuries he carried. What had those silly children called the deadly monsters who held death and destruction sacred above all else? _The Lonely Ones. _It hadn't been very long since then. But everything had been so much simpler. Or maybe, things had never been simple. Maybe _he _had simply been blind.

"Cool? Compared to the things you've seen, the things you've done..."

"That's just it! I wanted to understand. Why they believed without knowing anything about what they were worshipping."

"Why do people believe in anything without knowing? So they can feel safe. So they can close their eyes and not be afraid of the dark."

Connor seemed to consider this. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than Angel had ever heard it.

"I was never afraid of the dark, Angel. Never. Like I knew that I had nothing to fear from it." He took in a shaky breath. "But the night you sent me away and I couldn't... That night, I was afraid. For you."

Angel stopped walking, looking into those blue eyes that made him think of Darla, never failing to remind him about true sacrifice. There were a million emotions fighting for supremacy within him, a million things he wanted to say, knowing that no words would ever be enough to express what he felt. Instead, he reached over, ruffling his son's unruly hair. He smiled, giving in to an earlier impulse.

"You need a haircut."

Connor smirked.

"Tell it to someone who cares."

Angel swatted lightly at him, and Connor jumped out of the way, circling the vampire mockingly. They traded jabs, laughing, until Angel froze in mid-attack. He sniffed the air, sampling it, the certainty already bitter within him.

"Do I even wanna know?"

"Human blood."

Connor followed the dark stare the vampire directed into the shadows. In the next instant, the creature darted through a beam of light cast by the glowing city. For a moment, they caught sight of feral yellow eyes, teeth the size of fingers, the shimmer of scales in the moonlight. And then it was gone, disappearing down a darkened street.

"Woah!" Connor exclaimed. "What the hell was that?"

They were both running after it now.

"I don't know. Reptilian species never really interested me."

"It kinda looked like one of those Brazilian Lagarto demons."

The shocked look on Angel's face was both amusing and irritating.

"What? I read," Connor muttered indignantly. Then, seeming to remember something, added, "Hey, wait a minute. Aren't those endangered?"

Angel felt the excitement sweep through him as the warrior soul torn to shreds mended just a little.

"This one is."

***

The sky was still shrouded in night when she returned to the Hyperion. As her hand reached out for the door, she wondered if he would still be standing in the same exact spot where she had left him. He hadn't followed her, hadn't lurked vigilantly in the shadows, hadn't become the same silent guardian of years gone by. Maybe more had changed than she thought. Maybe, if that were true, it would bother her.

Buffy shook her head to clear it. _Get a grip on yourself._ The mental thrashing seemed to work, at least for the moment. Her stride was a little more confident when she walked into the lobby, but at the foot of the staircase, she hesitated again.

The feeling accosting her was no mystery. The pulse quickened just a little, an almost audible hum coursing like electricity under her skin.

It was no use.

Dusting the vamp had helped relieve some of her nervous energy. But it was still there; unmistakable, unrelenting.

_Isn't it crazy how slayin' just always makes you hungry and horny?_

She really hated it when Faith was right.

Making up her mind to vanquish the former and ignore the latter, she set off to raid the fridge.

One ham sandwich later, the ignoring wasn't going so well. The more she thought about it, the more it was a terrible idea. Yet somehow she found herself knocking on Angel's door. Just to talk, of course; just to clear the air between them.

Her knocks and whispered words were met with silence. She frowned. It wasn't like him to be outright rude, even when he cranked up his setting to Morose- Ultra. She pushed the door open gently.

"Angel?"

Only the emptiness answered in greeting.

She searched the hotel. There was no one. And for a moment, a sharp paralyzing fear knocked the breath from her lungs, fixing her on the tip of its pointed blade.

_The Glamour had collapsed. Wolfram and Hart had reclaimed their spoils. He was lost forever. _

It took all of her considerable strength to manage a coherent thought. She called Willow, barely registering the five missed calls flashing on her display.

"Buffy! Where've you been? We've been trying to reach you!"

"He's gone." Voice raw with emotion. She heard it outside her own body and didn't recognize it.

"Who's gone where? Are you ok?" Willow's voice was fraught with worry.

"The Glamour—"

"It's still holding. Intact as can be. Did something happen to Angel?"

"I… I don't know. Can you find him?"

"Just a sec."

Buffy could hear the receiver being put down on the other end, some scratchy noises, silence. She had remembered how to breathe again, but just barely. It was an eternity before her friend replaced the silence.

"He's fine. Somewhere in L.A. Buffy, we need to ta—"

"Thanks Will. Call you later."

She hung up in a daze.

_He's ok. _She took in a deep breath. And another. On the third, she breathed in righteous anger instead of air.

_How could he just leave like that?_

_He's a deader man than he is already._

Then — _Why do I care so much?_

She hated that he could make her feel that way, like she was still some irrational, hormonal teenager. The sudden hodgepodge of emotions made her head all spinny.

It took a moment to register that the phone was buzzing, still clutched in her hand.

She sighed, flicked it open.

"Drama R Us, how may I help you?"

"Can you not be spazzo girl for a minute? It's important."

Buffy sobered at the sharpness in the witch's voice.

"What's up?"

"Something is happening Buffy. Something bad."

"Bad like 'I ruined my favorite sweater'-bad, or apocalyptically- bad?"

"We're not quite at DEFCON Apocalypse yet, but I think… something is coming."

"Gee, could you vague that up for me?"

Willow sighed.

"I just… I _feel_ it. The dark power. Like one of your slayer dreams."

Buffy nodded, even though Willow wasn't there to see.

"Speaking of… have you had any slayer dreams? Seen any portents?"

"You have _really_ been spending too much time with Giles."

She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging on it painfully. No, her dreams as of late had certainly had little to do with _slaying_. She voiced the thought quietly, sadly.

"Too much Angel on the brain, Will."

She had no one else to share that truth with. No one else who would understand.

The redhead's voice was equally soft when she responded.

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yeah, you know, it's just _Buffy and Angel- The Collector's Edition_. Angst and miscommunication sold separately."

"Unfortunately, there's a lot of carnage when stuff gets too angsty between you two. Don't forget that Buffy."

As if she ever could.

"Call me the minute anything happens. And tell Giles to stop pacing, he'll wear out his expensive Persian rug."

Willow smirked.

"Well, if you'd quit with the Angel snuggles long enough to pick up your phone…" She heard an abrupt laugh, then the dial tone. Looking out somewhere beyond the constraints imposed by human vision, Willow fervently hoped that her friends would find their way. Preferably without ending the world in the process.

At the other end of the globe, Buffy finally succumbed to the exhaustion of the last few days. It was the most emotionally battered she had been since the last apocalypse. Willow's warnings echoed in her head. _A coming darkness. Angst and carnage. _She wasn't sure which one she dreaded more.

That wasn't quite true. Some new giant evil she could handle. It was only her own spiraling emotions that she couldn't control. And to think, she could be lying on a beach in Italy, fantasizing about how perfect everything could be if she would only bake faster…

But then she wouldn't be here, angry at him.

Things were getting far too complicated. Then again, hadn't they always been?

She'd go get some sleep, in her _own _bed thank you very much. Maybe then she could have some peace and quiet from the thoughts and feelings bombarding her at every turn.

But neither sleep nor peace was hers to be had that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the memory of his cool lips burned her flesh to cinders.

***

"Tired yet, old man?"

"Ha! Don't need to breathe, remember?"

They rounded another corner just in time to see a manhole cover come flying at them like some giant frisbee. Connor ducked. Angel jumped, landing silently on his feet. Turning, he smirked at the boy.

"Need a hand, sonny?"

Connor was upright almost before the words hit the air, a reciprocal smirk on his own face. They watched the demon disappear into the sewers.

As they descended in pursuit, Angel was secretly pleased. He could navigate these passages with the certainty of any tracking system.

As his feet touched down in a puddle, the predatory gleam returned to his eyes.

Father and son took off again, their footfalls echoing together companionably.

One set of footfalls suddenly gave way to a loud splash, as the demon took them by surprise and barreled into Connor. Its seven-foot tall frame towered over the prostrate boy, scaled torso gleaming in the scant light. All gnashing teeth and long, curved claws, it prepared to pounce again. Connor rolled out of the way, catching it behind the shins with his leg. The creature roared in rage, but remained standing. Angel took the opportunity to leap onto its back and wrap his arms around the thick neck. The scales that covered its body were clearly secreting some sort of thick mucus, because Angel's hands had a tough time finding purchase. He opted for squeezing his arms tighter, feeling ridiculous.

"This is no time to be hitching a piggyback ride, Angel."

Connor kicked out, catching the creature in the gut. It grunted in pain, but still found the energy to back up into the brick tunnel with force, thrashing Angel against it. He hung on, despite feeling the pain from his broken ribs flare bright and hot again. The demon rammed them into the wall once more, but this time, the vampire swung his legs into a horizontal position. When they hit the wall, he pushed, propelling the creature forward into the opposite wall. It hit the brick with a resounding _thwack_, losing its balance a little. Angel released it and swung with all his might, his fist connecting with skull with a gratifying crunch. He cursed himself for not bringing any weapons short of a stake, even as he watched Connor approach from the opposite side.

A change overcame it then. Cornered, the demon let out a bone curdling scream, its agape mouth revealing two rows of shark-like teeth. It faced him, and before Angel could react, spit that pungent mucus into his face. Blinded, he could only struggle while it lifted him over its head unceremoniously, and threw him at Connor like a rag doll. They landed hard in a tangle of limbs, and the creature made its triumphant escape.

For a few minutes, neither of them moved. Then, Angel turned his face sideways a little, using the filthy water to clean the mucus off his face. It burned. One of his healed ribs had definitely been re-broken. He could barely feel his damaged arm. He sat up with difficulty and looked at Connor, filthy and shivering. Imagined how he himself must look. Connor watched him with an unreadable expression. Suddenly, they both burst into uncontrollable laugher, the sound ringing in their ears and bouncing off the walls as their footsteps had done minutes before.

Wet and exhausted, they headed back, still laughing. They made their way through the doors of the hotel mere minutes before the bright orange rays stretched across the land, awakening the city to a life he would never be a part of.

In those precious moments, he didn't care.

He followed his son, both dragging mud and gore behind them. And as he ascended the staircase, feeling every one of his two-hundred-and-fifty-one years, he couldn't remember a time when he'd been this content.


	15. Chapter 15 Bloodline

**Chapter 15~ Bloodline**

Despite the exhaustion and freshly re-aggravated injuries, some irresistible force spurred Angel awake a few short hours after he'd gone to bed. Driven by the severe ass- kicking he'd received instead of inflicting the night before, he braced himself against the pain and made the decision that training was the best thing he could do for himself at the moment. After all, he only had one purpose now, and if he couldn't fulfill his duty in protecting those around him, well… then he should just end his own miserable existence before making an even bigger mess of things.

Rays of light filtered into the early morning stillness of the lobby. He stood just out of their reach for a moment, frozen in time, watching tiny particles float in the air around him. He missed being able to look at the sun from inside his necro-tempered fortress, pretending he could feel it, that it could touch him like any normal man.

But he wasn't any normal man, never would be. He would never change, no matter what he had deluded himself into believing.

He could live with that.

The last thing he deserved was a reward.

***

The cool, damp air of the basement somewhat soothed his aching bones. Descending the stairs, Angel wondered if his old throwing knives were still down here somewhere, kept company by what remained of their store of weaponry.

He stopped on the bottom step, hands in his pockets, meeting the eyes of the figure that sat slumped against the brick wall inside the cage that had once been used to house Angelus.

"Spike."

The wary tone was mere habit now. Any true resentment had fallen by the wayside about a thousand demons ago.

Taking in Angel's battered appearance, the younger vampire's lips curved upward in a familiar smirk.

"Out playing caped crusader again?"

"Hardly."

Spike arched a dark eyebrow. Angel answered the look by shrugging nonchalantly.

"Well, you should see the other guy."

"I'm sure he's somewhere shedding tears over his broken fingernails."

Angel scowled slightly, then brightened at his sudden flash of inspiration. Two could play that game.

"How was your date with Faith?"

He could barely suppress the amusement as Spike's eyes widened in startled indignation.

"Wasn't a bloody date!" Realizing he'd taken the bait, he forced his voice to take on its mocking tone. "Always suspected your altruism toward that hot little vixen was a pile of rubbish. Does Buffy know how interested you are in what Faith does?"

Angel tried to hide it, but he knew Spike noticed the slight tensing of his muscles at the mention of Buffy's name. The blue eyes took on that attentive, penetrating gaze that made those on its receiving end suddenly uneasy. Angel laughed low in his throat, rubbing the back of his neck idly.

"Buffy's a little… upset with me at the moment."

"Did something stupid, did you?" The tone hinted at deeper meanings, hidden questions. His sire sighed deeply.

"Don't I always?"

He shuffled his feet for a moment, then came and sat by Spike. Noticing the bottle on the floor he picked it up, a broad smile stretching across his face.

"Knappogue Castle? Why Spike, you shouldn't have."

"Bloody well didn't. Gonna drink it all by my lonesome."

They both knew it was far from the truth. Spike was well aware of Angel's fondness for Irish whiskey.

Angel rolled the bottle in his hands, eyes scanning the familiar drawing on the label, remembering how the crumbling edifice had looked in its days of glory.

"I drew it once. The castle, I mean." He still stared at the picture, lost in memory.

"I remember. Did a good job too."

They didn't mention _when_ he had drawn it. Didn't mention the slaughtered inhabitants, the drained servants, Darla's sharp laughter slicing through the night.

Spike took the bottle from him, stared at it. Thought about his conversation with Buffy, avoided those dark, sorrowful eyes.

"I feel…"

He wondered briefly if that was the first time he had spoken those words to this man.

"I feel how you look Angel. Like I've gone a round too many with a Chorago demon. Beaten and mangled, the fight knocked out of me. I want to scream at the top of my lungs at the injustice of it all. I miss them too. They deserved better than what they got."

He glanced at Angel, who was staring at him with open wonder. As if he were willing himself to believe that it was Spike, William the Goddamn Bloody, saying these things to him.

"But that's life in't it? The just are not rewarded, the wicked rarely punished. You and me sitting here, our hides intact, is proof enough of that. By all rights we should have burned a century ago."

Reaching over, he grasped the other vampire's hand in a bone crushing grip.

"But we're still _here_," he continued fiercely. "It doesn't matter by what dark magicks. It only matters that we have a purpose. A reason for existing. Even if sometimes it doesn't seem like it. No matter how much we want to say to bleedin' hell with it all, we gotta suck it up Boss-man. Keep scrappin'. Protect what's good in this world. Because if we don't, if we just lie down and disintegrate in a patch of sunlight, then they would have sacrificed their lives for nothing. And no one will be left to remember."

They remained frozen in that tableau, brown eyes colliding with blue, the weight of the moment creating a link as unbreakable as the blood that bound them.

"I'll remember." Angel's voice was thick with emotion.

Spike released him then, seemingly satisfied.

For endless minutes after, they sat side by side quietly, a bottle of whiskey bridging the space between them.

***

Buffy was pacing the lobby nervously when Faith came downstairs wearing a sour expression. Despite her worry about Angel still not being in his room, the sight made Buffy laugh. She remembered all too well the morning after a night spent drinking with Spike.

"Been there," she said sympathetically.

Faith snorted in acknowledgement.

"Coffee?" she croaked. Her sister Slayer motioned to the freshly brewed pot.

Faith poured herself a cup, did a double take.

"Damn. Did I buy this?" she asked.

"I did." Conner's voice floated down to them from the staircase. "Good, right? Angel likes his coffee same way he likes his clothes— imported and expensive."

Buffy rolled her eyes in perfect synchronicity with Faith's nod.

"Speaking of dear old dad," Connor said, "anyone seen him? He wasn't in his room."

"That's it, exactly!" Buffy's worry was palpable. "He wasn't here when I checked his room last night either. What if something's happened to him?"

"Hey, relax. He's fine. We came in just before dawn after a little father/son demon hunting." He ran a hand across his stiff neck. "Well, more like a little father/son ass-kicked- getting. Either way, there was a demon involved."

Buffy stared, incredulous. She had been worried out of her mind and Angel had gone demon hunting?

"Maybe he's down in the basement with Spike," Faith offered.

Buffy spun around towards Faith, and more incredulous staring ensued.

"Spike's downstairs?"

"Yeah, well, we got in kinda on the wrong end of the sun too. Needed someplace to crash for the day."

Connor grabbed a donut, shoved it in his mouth, and headed for the basement. Buffy threw up her arms in exasperation, resuming her pacing. Faith shook her head in confusion.

"B, chill. What's with the crazy?"

She received a glare for her trouble.

"Look, you wanna tell me what the problem is before you wear a hole in that floor?"

"I'm wiggy."

"Why the wig?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's some sort of post- Hell dimension stress disorder. Or, you know… Angel. Spike. Wiggy."

"What, a creepy old hotel with a whole mess of ex-boyfriend types not your idea of fun?"

The blonde Slayer stopped pacing long enough for another glare.

"Well, it's not like they have nothing to talk about except you. They've been around each other for a year. If they were gonna compare notes, they've done it by now."

"Faith," Buffy said through gritted teeth, "stop helping."

Faith sighed, pressing the palms of her hands over her eyes and rubbing furiously.

"Look, you're making _me _wiggy. You wanna, I don't know, hang out or something?"

This time, the stare was nothing short of eye-popping.

"Hang out? Did you seriously just say 'hang out'?"

"What? Is there something unusual about hanging out?"

"There's lots of things we've done together Faith. Kill demons. Burn down vamp nests. Burglary. Breaking out of a cop car once, and boy was that ever fun. But we've never 'hung out'."

Faith cursed herself silently for her vulnerability. How could Buffy ever understand that she needed human contact, craved it, that she was so close to the edge and grappling desperately for a way to reel herself back in?

"Forget it, B. Don't know what I was thinking."

Avoiding the other woman's gaze, she grabbed the half-empty cup and made her way towards the stairs.

Watching the retreating form, the proud set to the shoulders, Buffy realized her mistake. The animosity receded just a little, just enough for her to remember that she had trusted Faith, once. Stupid as it was, they had been like sisters. Under the skin, in their blood, they still were.

"Faith, wait."

The face that turned toward her was guarded. Yet something flickered there that stirred Buffy's empathy. She too knew what it was like to feel cut off from the rest of humanity.

"Look, I'm sorry about that. I seem to be suffering from a slight case of bitch today."

"Just today?" Faith smirked. She came back towards Buffy, hopping up to sit on the reception desk and wincing at the sudden change in position. "Man, you'd think I'd know better than to let a vamp talk me into taking him on shot for shot."

Buffy laughed. "A sweet-talker, that Spike."

Faith looked up, arching an eyebrow.

"Talked you into all kinds of things, didn't he?"

Buffy shook her head, indicating that subject was off limits. The silence enveloped them for some minutes. To the surprise of both women, it wasn't uncomfortable.

Faith spoke first, her voice lower, her tone less jovial.

"Is there something I should be worrying about too?"

The reference was unspoken, understood.

"I _was _worried. Now I'm mad."

The breath Faith expelled was tinged with irritation.

"Look, in case you hadn't noticed, Angel's a big boy. He can handle himself."

"He's injured! Two days ago he could barely stand." Suddenly on the defensive again. Why did they always butt heads when it came to him?

"Give him a little credit, B. He survived just fine for a long time without you mother- henning him."

"Yeah, just fine Faith. That's why we had to pull him out of a Hell dimension. He seemed really intent on surviving."

"Touché." Looking up, she met Buffy's eyes. "Just leave it be for a bit. He's… out of his element right now. Can't be all 'follow the leader' without his crew. Gotta be tough on the guy. He hasn't been this alone in a long time."

"He's not alone." She couldn't hide the hurt in her voice, didn't particularly want to.

"You know what I mean. Put yourself in his shoes."

Buffy didn't know what made her more angry; the fact that Faith was right, or the fact that Faith needed to explain these things to her about Angel.

***

They were halfway through the bottle by the time Connor interrupted a rousing rendition of Spike's masterpiece, _The Wanton Folly of Me Mum_. The two figures, almost amusing in the contrast of their coloring, looked at the boy expectantly.

"Is this a vampires only thing, or can anyone join?"

Angel laughed softly, patting the ground next to him.

"I think you qualify, Connor."

Grinning, Connor sat beside his father and reached for the bottle. Angel grabbed his wrist.

"Nice try."

"Ok, so not fair. You're supposed to be the cool dad, not the lame one with all the rules. I already have one of those."

Angel laughed again.

"That's not how it works."

They both turned to look at Spike, who had made a rather interesting sputtering sound, and was now staring between them with an expression of abject horror.

"You must be getting senile in your old age, Angel. The kid just called you 'dad'."

Angel shrugged, clearly used to this reaction.

"That's probably because I _am_ his dad, Spike."

Spike continued to stare, mouth agape. For endless seconds, he was transfixed by the sight of them. And then let out a burst of hysterical laughter that shook his entire frame and forced him to rest against the ground for support.

"And here I thought that for the first time in a century something had actually rendered you speechless," Angel said gruffly. When the laughter didn't cease but only intensified, he tapped Spike's forearm impatiently.

"Hey! What's so funny?" Connor didn't seem amused either.

"It's…for the love of… it's no wonder…" He seemed to be trying to control himself, wiping the tears from his eyes, reigning in his voice to obey.

"Spike." It was a warning growl.

"It's no wonder there's a fresh Apocalypse every year. Vampires having nibblets. If that's not a sign of impending doom, I don't know what is."

Father and son clearly did not share his mirth, but merely exchanged a glance, as if the truth in those words was clearer to them than even to him. He stopped laughing, raking his gaze over Connor with more attention to the details.

"Yes," he said, almost to himself. Then sat up straighter, startled. His eyes flew to Angel's. "Darla?"

Angel nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Spike hadn't needed the confirmation. Knew now what that nagging feeling had been deep inside his gut from the moment he first set eyes on the boy, months ago at Wolfram and Hart. Didn't ask how it was possible, having seen enough of the universe's rules broken to know that anything could be arranged. That the impossible could come to fruition if someone with enough power willed it so.

A child borne of two vampires. It _was_ impossible. Yet there it was.

He and this human— descendants of the same bloodline.

"Huh. I guess that means I'm your Uncle Spike, kid."

He laughed again, prompted in no small part by the undisguised horror on Angel's face at that statement. This time, Connor joined him.


	16. Chapter 16 Consequence

**Chapter 16~ Consequence**

What Faith had actually said was "leave _it_ be" not "leave _him_ be", but Buffy decided that both would be prudent at the moment. Did it really matter if that was the most cowardly thing she had ever done, if it provided her with time? Time to figure out what to say, how to ease the tension between them. The pull that had always drawn them to each other like magnet to iron was stronger than ever. There was no more denying that than denying that violence would always be a part of her life. But admitting it and acting on it were two different things. They were still separated by years and by oceans. More importantly, she didn't know if she was ready— if she would ever be ready— to brave the depth of those emotions again. If she still had it in her to give him everything, when everything she had to give had been lost since the moment he stared at her through the fog and refused to say goodbye.

Hell, she didn't even know with any certainty that he still loved her. Still thought about her that way.

He was attracted to her, that much was clear. But he had lived a full, different life here. Truly lived, while she had died, and had lain buried in the earth. Lived like a human while she had roamed like the undead, having clawed her way out of her own grave.

Could he smell death on her? she wondered.

Would she ever be enough for him again, after all that he had had and lost?

***

He could feel her deliberate distance all day. Once or twice, he could sense her hasty retreat from a space he had entered. It incensed him. Was she really going to play these childish games, instead of just confronting him? He could admit that kissing her had been inappropriate. He'd crossed a line. Hadn't run after her last night like he'd wanted to because he knew this. But she wasn't being very mature about the situation. This, too, he knew, because he had lived in the real world.

Lived long enough to know that just because she may have loved him once with her whole heart didn't mean that she still did. Or _should_. Long enough to know that the princess ended up with the prince, not the monster she glimpsed in the dark.

And so he couldn't sleep. Long after Connor had retreated upstairs and Spike had taken off to look for the vanished Illyria, his footsteps echoed across the empty spaces. He walked his room, skin burning with the feel of her so near. He walked the hallway, and wondered why it was still so damn difficult to be around her. Why her power over him was still so strong. He walked up the staircase to the upper floors, thinking of all the people who used to walk those hallways but no longer could. Thinking of how much he needed to feel alive again.

***

He could smell the cigarette smoke curling in the air, and knocked softly.

"Yeah?"

Opening the door, he leaned casually against the doorframe.

"Forget it. I'm not inviting you in." The corners of her bee-stung lips curled upward mischievously.

He laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. It still felt foreign to laugh like that, but undeniably good. She sat up in her seat by the window, smoke clinging to her flesh. Reaching her arms up behind her head, she arched her back in that characteristic way— like she was so wired on the inside that her own skin couldn't contain her. He suddenly thought of a cat arching its back, and thought that maybe slayers were like cats. Between the two of them, Faith and Buffy were probably on life number five by now.

"Anyone ever tell you those things will kill you?" He pointed to the cigarette dangling from her lips, as he moved gracefully across the room.

"Well, something's gotta, right?"

He took the seat opposite hers and looked at her intently; took in the dark circles under her eyes, the bruises marking her skin. She'd been hard on herself. Always, so hard on herself. He wished she wouldn't go taunting death just to prove that life was something of which she was deserving. Then again, isn't that precisely what he had done— courted Hell itself in a misguided attempt to justify his continued existence?

Something in his face must have beckoned to her, because she regarded him with a matching intensity. Then, a throaty chuckle escaped her lips.

"What's the matter, big guy. Got an itch you can't scratch?"

He didn't answer, only maintained the steady contact, his face impassive. Her hand rubbed idly against the opposite arm, suddenly aware that she was touching gooseflesh. Faith didn't retreat from the penetrating gaze that knew her so well, that could read her without question. Without judgment. She sighed.

"Yeah man, I know the feeling."

***

The room was empty, just as it had been the two times previous. It was getting kind of annoying actually. Maybe if it hadn't taken her so long to come to her senses and try to actually _talk_ to him… Buffy still wasn't sure what she was supposed to say or how she was supposed to say it. At least she'd regained some measure of equilibrium, even if her stomach was still tied up in knots. But he wasn't there again, damn him, and she didn't know if at this point it was more of a relief or a disappointment.

With a sigh, Buffy dragged herself away from his door. Sulked for a minute. Remembered the look on Faith's face and the harsh way she'd spoken to the brunette, when it was clear that all the other girl wanted was a connection. There was no forgiving Faith; not yet, maybe not ever. But that didn't mean she couldn't try to understand. After all, if Angel could do it…

***

She heard their voices behind Faith's door, soft and earnest, laced with occasional laughter. The words seemed to be disjoined, incoherent, as they were strung together in a litany of past events she had never been privy to. Jailhouse visits…Angelus…Wesley's macho makeover…Beasts…Mind walks…and…Barry Manilow? Then, atonement. Redemption. Fighting against the darkness, keeping the demons at bay. Not just the ugly, snarly kind. The ones that lived inside, so deep and so much a part of you that you could never dig down far enough to cut them out without gutting yourself. Could only push them down into the furthest recesses of your being and hope you were strong enough to keep them there.

"I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you."

Buffy had never heard Faith sound so sincere, so open.

And Angel, using language that he could only have picked up from the dark Slayer.

"That vice goes plenty versa."

Tenuous control forgotten, her fists clenched into balls at her sides, the knuckles turning white as anger raged through her. Why couldn't he ever talk to _her_ like this? He was still treating her the way he always had; like she was something fragile that had to be handled ever so gently. Like he had to protect her from what he was, and in doing so hide the most intimate parts of himself. She understood where that instinct had come from, when she was younger. No matter how much she loved him, there were things she wouldn't have been able to understand. She could admit that, having lived through all that had marred her life in the years after Angel left Sunnydale. But why couldn't he trust her with his secrets _now_?

She would never acknowledge it out loud, but she had become much more like Faith over the years. And Faith like her. Now that was irony: the dark Slayer had learned to control the urges that had once driven her very existence, to temper her basest desires with self-awareness and respect for duty and necessity. While she, the light to Faith's darkness, had learned to forsake duty and calling when it suited her, to succumb to the primal and instinctual cravings she had once damned Faith for indulging. They had been Yin and Yang once, the two of them. She wondered if now they were one and the same.

She snuck away from the door, hoping that Angel and his damn vampire hearing hadn't picked up on her hasty retreat. The anger began to dissipate a little, something deeper and more profound invading her in its stead. Choking back a sob, she leaned against the cool wall of the corridor. She wasn't the young, naïve girl she had been, but she was reliving the pain of the moment, feeling it as sharply as she had the first time.

_  
What I want from you, I can never have._

His dark eyes had exuded heartbreak, argued with her words, even as he accepted the truth in them.

She questioned bitterly if they would ever cease being true.

***

Six thousand miles away, the man with the peculiar name was in a hurry. He was late, and his employer did not suffer tardiness lightly. In fact, the individual who was now his primary goal suffered nothing lightly. And those who disappointed him… well, they just _suffered_.

Gripping the parcel in his hands tighter, he increased his pace.

The footsteps faltered when he approached The Door. Hesitation, a deeply inhaled breath, and then his fist connected with the rich dark wood, a resounding knock that exuded far more confidence than was behind it.

"Enter."

The room was unnaturally dark, its sole occupant reclining in a large leather chaise, his face obscured by shadow. Only two things stood out from the darkness; the long pale fingers laced together and moving rhythmically, the black eyes glinting with an omnipotent gleam.

"Lucien," the figure rumbled in a low, deep voice. "Has it arrived?"

Willing his hands to be steady, he held up the package.

"Only just. All else is as you commanded."

"The humans?"

"Taken care of. Only…" Lucien let his voice trail off, hesitant to the bearer of bad news.

The eyes bore into him steadily, until he felt as if he would burst into flames.

"There was a minor complication," he ground out, forcing himself to continue. "Another had questioned them. Tortured them."

"Torture?" The voice had turned the word into a sweet caress.

"It was a human. A girl, unnaturally strong."

"A Slayer?"

"It would appear so. Our people are searching for her."

For a moment, there was only silence. Lucien held his breath. Finally, the slender pale flesh disentangled, a hand dismissively waved.

"It is of no consequence."

Lucien stepped closer. Extended the object clasped gingerly in his hands.

A glint of white sliced through the blackness, sharp teeth from behind lips curled into a feral smile.

"Those _children_ know not what looms on the horizon. They are powerless. There was only one, ever only one who could challenge us. That threat has been effectively removed."

He stood abruptly, reaching for the proffered item. The voice now held a hint of laughter.

"And to think. It was right there, under his nose. Imagine what power he could have wielded had he simply bothered to find it. He was a fool, the Powers' Champion. And now nothing stands in our way."


	17. Chapter 17 Collision

**Chapter 17~ Collision**

It wasn't entirely clear what had happened. One minute she was lying in bed, unseeing eyes still moist, constricting pain coursing its way through her trembling body. The next minute she was up and stalking towards his room, tired of this hotel, this city, this _continent_, anger and disappointment welcoming her into their familiar embrace. She hadn't known, hadn't realized until now, how much those two particular emotions were entangled with her love for him.

There was no response to the knocks on his door. Again. She never did appreciate déjà vu. It seemed that's all she'd been doing lately. Knocking, desperately seeking entrance beyond his walls.

She pushed the door open, unsurprised to find the room empty. Maybe he'd gone on another boneheaded excursion with Connor. Maybe he was still upstairs with Faith.

But the maybes were dispersed by the sound of running water drifting from behind his bathroom door. And there wasn't enough anger and disappointment in the world to keep her from imaging his naked form under the hot stream, tense muscles twitching as they relaxed, feet planted solidly in the space where she had wept in gratitude and realization days before.

It was almost enough for her to go to the hitherto nonexistent Plan B and just let their bodies do the talking for them.

_Think with your brain not your_—

Clamping her legs together tightly, she lowered herself into a chair. No turning back now.

She waited.

***

He emerged from the bathroom, clad in nothing but his customary dark trousers, the beads of water racing along his flesh, his hair still damp. Her heart lurched at the sight, and she wondered how a dead man could give off so much heat. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Suddenly, confronting him like this didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

For his part, Angel was taken aback to find her there. He could tell she was angry. And aroused. Not because he was a vampire and could smell it, although that was true. It was because she was his, and he knew her. He was aware of her body in a way that belied their brief experience together. She was a part of him, and the feel of her so close stirred his blood in ways nothing else ever could.

"You know, even though I'm a vampire, it's still polite to knock."

"Thanks for the etiquette lesson."

"There's no need for sarcasm, Buffy."

"Testy are we?"

"Can you blame me? You've pretty much avoided me like the plague. And I've seen a few plagues."

"Doesn't seem to have affected you much." At his confused glance, she added, "The avoiding, not the plague."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your little gabfest. Although I shouldn't be surprised. It's still an exclusive club of two, isn't it? Those who've never been in Angel's mind not welcome."

Angel sighed, ran a hand through his dripping hair.

"You're upset because I talk to Faith?"

"Talk? You pour your heart out to her!"

They both grimaced at the mental image that was momentarily evoked.

"Ew. I mean, you tell her your deep stuff. Stuff you don't tell me."

"And you tell Spike things you don't tell me."

"That's different."

"How?"

"It… it just is. I don't shut you out."

He raised an eyebrow, the look on his face leaving no doubt as to his thoughts on the veracity of that statement. She studied him, confusion and pride warring within her, wanting equally to reach out and touch him and reach out and hurt him. When she spoke, she hoped he wouldn't hear the catch in her throat. Hoped he wouldn't call her bluff. Hoped he would.

"Look, you obviously don't need me. Maybe I should just… I don't know, go, or something."

Angel sighed once more. It was something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately, and it annoyed him almost as much as the current argument. He shoved his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again restlessly. Strong hands that had killed a thousand demons, completely useless when it came to one tiny, exasperating woman. The urge to shake some sense into her was nearly overpowering.

"Buffy, when I talk to Faith it's about comfort, understanding, friendship. Nothing more and nothing less."

"Right. All things I can't give you, clearly."

"You don't understand. They're not what I want from you. I can't open myself up to you just a little bit, and then back off. I want to give you everything, all of me. And that's not something that you're ready for right now."

"Something I'm not ready for? God, look at you. Still making decisions for me! I'm not a kid anymore Angel."

He swallowed audibly, pushing past the lump in his throat.

"I noticed."

The implication in his words and tone was lost on her, righteous anger spurring her forward at breakneck speed.

"So, did you ever, even once, think to ask me what _I _want?"

"I did ask! When I came to you in Sunnydale, with the amulet in my hands and my heart on my sleeve… and you threw it in my face! Told me Spike was in your heart, as if I couldn't smell him on you. Told me you didn't want me by your side in battle, and gave me that stupid cookie speech…"

"Stop mentioning that! I get it, not one of my finer moments!"

"Whatever. I admit I made some decisions about your life without asking you. Because I thought I knew what was best, because I thought you'd be better off in the long run. Maybe those were mistakes, and maybe they weren't. But don't ever accuse me of not asking you what you want, Buffy. I came to you that night and you turned me away, pushed me out of your life. That was _your _choice, not mine!"

"Oh, okay Angel. I was in the fight of my life and you decided it was a good time to revisit our relationship issues? What did you want me to do, give you a happy right there in the cemetery while the First Evil killed all my friends?"

"You _know_ that's not what I meant!"

"Then what the hell did you mean? What, me breaking and entering another dimension to save your sorry ass was too much with the subtle for you?"

"I never asked you to! All of a sudden you decide to help after a year of acting like I'm evil incarnate, and I'm supposed to do what? Read between the lines?"

"You couldn't read between the lines if they were all neon and…liney."

That was lame, and she knew it. Angel, however, was too worked up to notice. If either of them had thought him too broken to be goaded, it was too late to realize the mistake in that notion.

"What the hell do you want from me Buffy?"

Rage and impatience like she had never seen in him before filled his voice. But it was also a plea, anguished and feral. For some reason she couldn't quite grasp, it made her want to lash out, to wound him as badly as he had wounded her, even though she knew that he was already hurting more than enough. It was childish and petty, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

"Nothing. Not anymore."

There was venom in her voice, even though she only partially meant for there to be. She watched as he stood, fuming, satisfied at making him lose his hard- won control. He was always so damn stoic.

"Then why are you still here?"

"Maybe because Spike is here."

It wasn't remotely true, but it was the surest way to get to him. It worked, the anger rising to a whole new level, just as she knew it would.

"Don't even pretend like what you did with _Spike_," he spat the name out as if it tasted like week old blood, "was even close to what we had!"

She wielded the words like a weapon, the final stab, the sword through the heart.

"What _we_ had? At least Spike was there! At least he was willing to give me what I needed."

It was a low blow, playing on his deepest insecurities, and she regretted it even before he recoiled as if slapped. She knew that she had gone too far, taunting him in a way that was both uncharacteristic and extremely unfair. He looked like he wanted to bite her, either to teach her a lesson or to reclaim what had always been his. Either way, his was fury palpable.

"Don't play games with me."

His voice was laced with an undertone of violence she had never imagined could be directed at her. It stirred the slayer within, a threat even her regret would not allow to pass unchallenged.

"Or what?" she hissed in defiance.

He clenched and unclenched his large hands into fists, growling menacingly. And then the moment shifted, the anger jolting like electricity through the air morphing into something far more dangerous.

He lunged at her, and it was as if she were watching it in slow motion, jarring her forcefully into the present until she could focus on nothing else.

***

Suddenly, there is no more past. No future either. Only the here and now, her mind zeroed in on the moment as if no other exists or ever existed. She's trembling. She's still angry, confused, unsure, and God, so _angry_ at him, and her words just crossed some forbidden line, and Faith is upstairs, and Spike is outside somewhere, and none of it matters because he's looking at her like he used to and yet not like he used to. He looks haunted, hunted, _hungry_, so hungry, like he's starving for her and her flesh is the only thing that can save him now. And it's a more profound hunger than when they were so stupidly in love with each other and all they wanted was to touch, to feel, to taste, to revel in one another and consummate their love. No, this is a hunger of the soul, a desperate need so achingly unrelenting within him that he would die from it if he wasn't already dead, technically. It consumes them both, and it doesn't matter anymore that she's angry because his lips are on top of hers, assaulting her, drinking her in, and her tongue is waging a battle with his. And there's no tentative touch or silken caress this time, but only that _WantTakeHave_ that Faith loves so much, a brutal onslaught of tongues and flesh and it chips at the years that have stood in their way. And the sensations rip through her, unlike anything she's ever felt, because it's Angel, and because he's different, so different, and still somehow quite the same. And his tongue is skillfully plumbing the depths of her mouth now, ravaging that hot moistness, and her hands clutch at his back, tangle themselves in his soft damp hair, pulling him closer, deeper, closer still. And she knows that he doesn't need to breathe, but she does, but she can't, and she moans into his mouth to let him know that she's still alive, and that she's with him. That small sound undoes something within him because he growls, deep in his chest, and it's the sexiest and most dangerous thing she's ever heard, and she bites down, hard, teasing the blood from his lip and claiming it, just as he had claimed her blood for his own once. He groans and draws her further into him, as if he thinks they can occupy the same space, and she can feel his arousal, impossibly hard against her, and the pressure between her legs becomes almost unbearable even as unwelcome reason crashes down upon her. She pulls away, gasping.

"Angel, we can't."

"We can."

"The curse."

"Not an issue."

"But…"

"Buffy, do you trust me?"

Words drift to her from out of the past.

_Do you love me?_

_I love you. I don't know if I trust you._

So many years ago. So many battles won and lost, so many friends fallen in the darkness. So many apocalypses averted. And yet what had changed, really, when it came to them? Does she trust him? She trusts him to have her back. To go on fighting, even when all hope is lost. Even when there is nothing left to fight for. She trusts the swiftness of his sword, the mercilessness of his demon, and the mercy of his soul. She trusts that he would die to protect her. But can she trust him with her heart? She doesn't know how to answer that question. Yet right now, with that insistent desire coursing through her veins, she trusts him a hell of a lot more than she trusts herself. He would never risk unleashing Angelus on the world, even if, at this moment, she would.

She answers his question by pressing her lips roughly against his. And then all restraint falls away and there's nothing but that threadbare line between pain and pleasure, his mouth and tongue and hands forceful and insistent against her in a way she had never imagined he could be. The desire coils tightly inside her, creating the sweetest ache she has ever known, and all she can think is _this is Angel, ANGEL,_ even as he pulls the shirt from her body and tears the button off her jeans in his haste. And she's clutching him, clawing at his back, fumbling with the zipper of his pants, and she feels the heat envelop her as if she were being burned from the inside out, and his hands are sliding over her breasts, squeezing and kneading roughly, and he's kissing her neck where he'd bitten her, and the memory of that immortal kiss makes the wetness pool between her legs in such a dizzying rush that she nearly collapses. He's not gentle or tender like he was the night he took her innocence, but that's good because she needs _this_, needs to feel him strong and fierce and unyielding against her, needs him to know that she won't break or shy away from the animal side of him. She feels every nerve ending in her body humming for him, crying out for his hands and lips and teeth and she wants more because it's never enough, even though he's everywhere. And she's never felt this alive before, and _he _was never this alive before, and she feels the urge to check for a heartbeat to make sure that he hadn't Shanshu-ed while no one was looking. She moans again, because they're both naked now, and she jumps up and wraps her legs around him, aching for the feel of his cool hard flesh. And somehow, finally, they're on the bed, and he's sliding inside, and he pounds into her with the strength of a hundred men, marking her on the inside as he had done on the outside. With each ferocious thrust he claims her as his, as if he were insistently shouting _mine, mine, mine_ in tandem with the rhythm of his body. And when she comes, she screams his name so loudly, that she swears the hotel rumbles and shakes from the sound.


	18. Chapter 18 Shadows Of Remembered Past

**Chapter 18~ Shadows Of Remembered Past**

After it was over, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed, sitting with his back to her. She watched his shoulders slump, the muscles in his arms tensing as his hands clutched at the edge of the mattress.

"Buffy," he whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

Her body stiffened at his words. She should have known better, should have expected this. It was a moment of weakness, he'll say, and it can never happen again. Nothing's changed. She braced for it, reminding herself that she wasn't eighteen any longer, and that she had survived far worse than this.

He turned, meeting her gaze with great effort. To her surprise, his eyes held no regret, but something she recognized as shame and a hint of fear.

"Did I… did I hurt you?"

As the wave of relief washed over her, she wanted to laugh, to remind him that she was a slayer, a woman whose own demon could tangle with his, that she had known darkness too…

Instead, she opened her arms to him, and whispered his name.

***

This time, when his body moved over hers, tenderness replaced need, and he was as she had remembered him on that fateful night. He caressed her with his lips, his gentle touch, worshipping at the altar of her flesh. He teased and tormented her with his tongue, pushing her towards the precipice, but never allowing the release of tumbling over. She had never been tended to so thoroughly before, the pleasure almost unbearable. And when, eyes brimming with passion and triumph, he finally sheathed himself inside her trembling body, she shattered around him like a fine piece of crystal.

"God, Angel," she breathed as his mouth continued its ministrations to her neck and breasts, and as he maintained his agonizingly slow rhythm. He brought her to find release again and again, savoring each sensation, the gleam in his eyes telling her that he found nothing more arousing than giving her pleasure. And when she clenched and trembled around him for the third time, he let go of all restraint and allowed himself to be swept along with her, groaning her name in a throaty whisper as they rocked each other into oblivion.

***

"I'm sorry," she said, face buried in his neck.

"I know."

"The things I said…I wanted to hurt you. I thought I had let it go, but I still wanted to hurt you. It was wrong."

"It's ok."

It wasn't ok. She needed to justify it.

"Would you believe I was possessed by one of those Ether demons?"

"Ethros demon. Buffy… I understand. It's really ok."

His voice was as sincere as she had ever heard it, and his arms squeezed her to him tightly. She pressed her lips into his neck in silent gratitude. He'd made this alright for her, the unforgivable forgiven, and it brought tears to her eyes. She had to make it up to him somehow, but she couldn't take back the words.

"Angel, I…"

Suddenly the tears spilled over. Those first few drops let loose some dam that burst deep inside, her whole body overcome by violent sobs. It flowed out of her, cleansing the reopened scars, washing away the hurt and the guilt and the fear she had carried for far too long.

"Buffy, Buffy…" he whispered reverently, as he brushed the hair from her face. Leaning into her, he kissed the tears away and, ridiculous as it was, he swore he could taste their saltiness. It made her real, more human and flawed than he had ever seen her through his worship- clouded eyes. And, even though he would have thought it absolutely impossible, it made him love her even more.

Even as her body shook, she clutched at him frantically, pressing her mouth to his in desperation and tasting her own tears on his tongue. She pulled him to her, despite his startled protest, gripping and stroking the part of him that she desperately needed to make her whole. He obliged the unspoken demand and slid inside gently, filling her up in a way she knew she could never be filled by anyone else.

When her body shook again, this time from pleasure, the passion and love pouring out like tears from within her liquid core, she felt the past finally releasing her from its iron grasp.

***

"I never knew it could be like that."

Her head lay on his chest as she curled up into his bulk. Her small fingers traced the outlines of his sculpted abdomen, touching him ever so lightly. Whenever they would dip, not-so-accidentally, below his navel, he would suck in an uneeded breath, and she loved the way the muscles would momentarily tighten under her touch.

"It never has been," he whispered. "Not with anyone else."

His fingers curled a strand of blond hair. She sighed, and removed herself from the expanse of chest with an effort. She lay on her side, propping her head up on her arm so she could see his face. But the position shift left her missing his touch almost instantly, so she reached over and ran her fingers idly over his lips. Automatically, her body responded.

"How is this possible?" she asked, with not a small amount of awe.

A part of her still didn't believe. A part of her was scared to death that if she closed her eyes for even a moment, she would open them again to find Angel gone and Angelus in his stead.

"I don't think… I don't think perfect happiness is much of a threat to me anymore."

Her hands stilled, and he could feel her start to pull away from him. His arm around her waist gripped tighter.

"We're not the same people we were. I'm not sure I can have… that… Buffy, not ever again. With everything that's happened, everything that's been taken from me, I…"

She seemed incredulous. "That's not quite the explanation I was expecting. What, no Christmas bonus from the bosses downstairs in the form of soul bondage? No sending your evil minions to search for ways to fix the curse?"

"No," he answered simply, then fell silent, not knowing how to further reply.

"Angel," she prodded, struggling to keep her tone even. "When, exactly, did this lightbulb moment strike you?"

"I don't know." He finally found his voice. "I don't know how, but I just knew. I felt it."

"Great. That's just perfect. We can finally have sex because you don't care enough about me anymore to lose your soul. Thanks honey. Sweetest thing ever."

She scrambled out of bed angrily and traversed the room to pick up pieces of hastily discarded clothing. Stark naked in the moonlight, the flush of their lovemaking still lingering on her skin, she seemed ablaze with an otherworldly glow. Angel thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful. Her anger only added fuel to his already raging fire. The idea that she was here, just out of his bed, that she had made love to him with reckless abandon- several times- was still so unreal to him that he was afraid he was dreaming. Or that he was dust and this was Hell and she would leave, and then the exquisite torture would start anew until losing her drove him to insanity.

"Buffy…" he started, rather lamely.

"How could I be so stupid? Again?" She was muttering to herself while dressing and ignoring him completely. "Stupid, childish Buffy. No love for you."

"Buffy, no!" Angel, finally understanding the depth of her misconception, propelled himself out of bed and stood in front of her. She stopped too, but only because she had only managed to retrieve one boot and was desperately scanning the room for the other. She avoided looking at his large, muscular body at all costs.

"Please," he said softly. "Look at me."

After a moment of deliberate refusal, her eyes finally found his. She couldn't deny the emotion she found there, and it gave her a moment of pause.

"Please," he implored again. "Just hear me out."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and sighed with irritation.

"Fine. But this will not be a pantless kind of talk."

He inclined his head slightly and obliged her by lifting his slacks off the floor and slipping into them. As soon as he did it, she regretted telling him to.

He looked at her almost shyly. She saw him fidget with his hands and suddenly thought about those long, elegant fingers so recently doing such interesting things to her body… _Ugh, focus Buffy!_

"Well?" She tried to give him her most withering stare. She must have forgotten that he'd endured that arsenal of female manipulative power from Cordelia for many years.

He wasn't sure where to start. He needed to explain this better. A lot better.

"Buffy, when I lost my soul… It wasn't just about how much I loved you. It wasn't just about making love. It was all of it, the culmination of that moment in time. It was the trust and acceptance you gave me. It was our innocence and the simple purity of our love. But the perfection of that moment is something we can never recreate. And the innocence is gone forever. We can't have it back. We've both been through too much, lost too much. Everyone I've ever loved… has paid a steep price for being a part of my life. That knowledge, those _memories_… it's enough to anchor me."

She stared at him, trying to regain some semblance of composure. It made sense, what he was saying, it really did, but somehow everything was too much to handle all of a sudden. Buffy wondered where all the bravery of the past few hours had gone, if he had somehow wiped it away with his tongue and hands.

"I think that was the most I've heard you say at one time, in… ever."

He watched her, jaw clenched, eyes searching.

"Look, I'm sorry. It just feels like bizarro world. You're all talkative guy, and we just…"

Her eyes flickered over to the bed and she bit her lip at the warmth that seeped through her body. The reality of what they had done could be found in those rumpled sheets, in his equally rumpled hair where her restless fingers had clutched and pulled in an effort to bring him impossibly closer. It excited and frightened her in equal measure.

But they were still _them_. The other reasons he had left her still existed. If she invested in this, there would be no surviving seeing him walk out of her life again. It would be the final death of her, the kind no amount of magic could resurrect her from.

It was the only thing she wasn't sure she was strong enough to weather.

_Back away Buffy, _she told herself. _Back away slowly, give him the out. He'll take it._

She peeked out at him through lowered lashes.

"But Angel, nothing's changed."

His gaze held hers for what seemed like forever, boring through her with its intensity. He didn't argue, didn't deny. She watched as he finally sighed in resignation, shoved his hands in his pockets, slumped his shoulders. He looked like he was trying to curl in on himself, disappear in his overwhelming heartbreak. Her own voice sprang to her mind, unbidden.

_You have a heart? It isn't even beating._

She recalled all too well the bottomless pit of pain and desperation that had driven her to say the words. All these years later, and she still wished she could take them back. He had the same expression on his face now, made all the worse by the peaceful bliss of minutes earlier that had vanished without a trace. And suddenly, her wounded pride didn't matter anymore. Her fright and confusion took a backseat to the fact that their separate journeys had led them here, now, almost as if their time had finally come. If she could just dare to believe that it wasn't some elaborate tease destined to end in badness…

Buffy took a breath and walked across the room to stand before him. Her hands came to rest on his belly, lightly tracing the well-defined muscles found there, marveling at the smoothness of his skin. She looked up at him, a smile on her lips and an apology in her eyes, her tone light. The look on his face had been put there by her words, and she needed to find the words to wipe it away.

"Ok, maybe not _nothing_. You've added some colors to your wardrobe. The whole Slayer/Vampire thing? A lot less scandalous than it used to be. And, oooh, here's a biggie: I'm not the One Girl in all the world anymore."

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet hers again. Her breath hitched at the look she found there, laid open for her to see. Like the way he had looked at her two lifetimes ago, hers _and_ his, before things became guarded and strained and hopeless between them.

"You are to me, Buffy." His voice left her awash in tenderness. "The only one."

She smiled up at him, the warmth in her belly starting to spread outward in an ever-expanding arc. Hooking a finger under the waistband of his trousers, she pulled him closer.

He brought his hand up to brush the blond tendrils out of her face, skim lightly over the arch of her jaw, linger over the throbbing pulse-point in her neck. Leaning down, he replaced fingers with lips, nipping and sucking lightly at the inviting juncture of neck and collarbone. She gasped when he found a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear, pulling him closer still.

The pace of his mouth's travels was slow, leisurely. Large hands completely covered her back, rubbing and kneading the muscles there. The moans and sighs escaping her nearly made him quiver, and Angel crushed her small body tightly to his.

Buffy gasped, feeling him hard and ready against her. Again. Hard and ready, for _her_.

As long as she lived, she'd never tire of that marvelous sensation.

"You know," she said huskily, pulling her face away from his a little, "You're making quite the case for vampire stamina."

He leaned in close, cool lips against her ear bringing forth an anticipatory shiver.

"You have no idea."


	19. Chapter 19 Tangled

**Chapter 19~ Tangled**

Buffy awoke slowly, the sensation of a crushing weight within her chest gnawing at the edges of consciousness. Opening first one bleary eye and then the other, she realized that it wasn't so much a weight _within_ her chest, as one _on top_ of her chest. Specifically, Angel's arm sprawled across her upper body and firmly drawing her to him. He lay on his stomach, face nuzzled in the crook of her neck, his unmoving form warm in all the places their flesh connected. The stillness, the picture of true death in this state, should have unnerved her. But it didn't.

It wasn't the first time she had woken up in his arms, but it was the first time in this context. And most definitely the first time without clothes. _That_ was the part that had her wigging.

_NOW I develop a sense of modesty? Quite the late bloomer there, Summers. _

She wanted to move, but was afraid to wake him. Truth be told, it was surprising that he hadn't awakened already, and it could only be a testament to the amount of damage his body had endured. They certainly hadn't helped his healing last night, she knew, and bit her lip as the images assaulted her senses.

Buffy inhaled deeply, inhaling him, his unique and unmistakable Angel-scent, soap and earthiness and something essentially _masculine_ that never failed to make the feminine in her clench and ache. Lifting his arm gingerly, she crawled out from the cocoon his massive form had created, missing the safety of that entrapment instantly. The impulse came so suddenly, that she reacted before registering it as a thought; reaching out, she stroked his skin with the edges of her fingertips, lightly trailing the familiar lines of the griffon perched atop his shoulder-blade.

It felt so real. So… familiar.

Standing by the bed, she allowed herself a moment to watch him, the way he had so often watched her. Her eyes followed the contours of his broad back, tracing the muscles, seeing the scratches and bites she had put there in a fit of animalistic passion. She knew her own skin would be spotless, a blank canvas. It was so like him, to be infinitely gentle even while he was being decidedly not. Besides, she reasoned, she didn't need the marks to remind her of where he had been, the things he had done. She could feel it on every square inch of herself.

Each time he had made love to her, it had been different. Each time, one overwhelming emotion dominated all others. Yet each experience had brought her a pleasure more intense than she had ever known, his sure, skilled fingers mapping the curves of her body as if they were roads he had traveled all his life.

Suddenly the intimacy of the situation was more than she could bear.

Not wanting to run away, but unable to stand her ground, she retreated to the relative safety of the bathroom.

Unblemished skin greeted her in the mirror. Eyes fixed on lips still red and swollen from his attentions. She felt a sharp prickle in her chest, the splinter of him that had never completely been removed from her heart. Like _she'd_ been staked with the very weapon of her trade, and could never quite shake it. Buffy hadn't known, not really, not until she touched those tingling lips, how deeply that stake had penetrated.

***

There were many ways he had imagined it, on the rare occasions he dared to imagine such things. He would finally break down and go to Rome. She would finally be ready, and turn up on his doorstep. Or, and only in his deepest subconscious could he lend words to this dream, he would come to her a living man and offer up his beating heart.

It was only around the time that he signed away the beating heart that he had stopped imagining.

And so, when he first opened his eyes and saw the blond hair splayed across his pillow like a golden waterfall, it took him a long moment to become convinced that he hadn't started imaging again. First he confirmed that she wasn't a byproduct of his currently unstable psyche, because no imagining could ever compare to _this_. He stared at her for a long time; this living, breathing Buffy that had clawed and tortured and teased with her fierce little hands that tore him apart at the seams. Not some mythic creature he idealized, not the ghost of another lifetime. _Her_. He smoothed the blond locks and pressed his face into her tanned neck, wanting to remain there forever.

A change in heart rate and breathing forewarned her waking. Angel had no such tells to give him away. It was not malice or trickery that bade him keep still as the death he was, to pretend as he never before had with her. The truth of the matter was simple; if she opened her eyes and they projected regret, he would not be able to bear it. He waited for her reaction, certain that if it could, his heart would be hammering out of his chest. He sensed everything. Heard the sharp intake of breath as she realized that she hadn't been imagining either, savored the scent of renewed arousal as she allowed the previous hours to wash over her consciousness, felt her intense perusal of his still form. When those same fingers that had made the sweetly stinging marks now scattered across his body lightly traced the tattoo on his back in that intimate way, it was all Angel could do to prevent jumping out of his skin. What regrets could there be, if she touched him this way? He knew too, the moment when it became too much, confusion and fear bleeding into desire and driving her from the bed. It was its own separate entity, this chimera of emotional incertitude still occupying the space between them. Maybe, he could hope, if they did this enough times, if each and every time he showed her what she meant to him, she could start to believe that he would sooner walk into the sunlit dawn than hurt her again.

***

The warm water soothed her aching muscles, some that she hadn't even realized _could_ ache. She had known, from her oft-repressed experiences with Spike and explosive dalliances with the Immortal, that sex with supernatural beings was bound to be… impressive. She had remembered, when it wasn't less painful to forget, how Angel had made her feel, that first night. The way he had always made her feel, expounded to the umpteenth power; like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered. But still, she hadn't been prepared. Couldn't have imagined him like this.

He was injured, and _she _had barely been able to keep up. Now that was saying something.

Slayer-sense obscured by hormones at the moment, Buffy was startled when she felt the shower curtain pulled open, the cool air bringing goose-bumps to her heated flesh. She spun around, hands reflexively ready to either defend or attack. Recognizing the intruder, she placed them on her hips instead.

"That's a surefire way to get yourself staked, stealth guy."

Angel scratched his head, usually coifed hair endearingly messy, and arched an eyebrow.

"Really? And where is it that you keep your… weapon?"

His gaze swept over her body intimately, longingly, as if he were already tasting with just his eyes.

The ache between her legs became an incessant throb. Returning his hungry perusal eagerly, she opened the shower curtain a little wider. Silent permission to his unspoken request.

Face to face with his broad chest under the warm stream, she finally noticed the change, and stifled a laugh.

"Did the gig at Wolfram and Hart happen to come with a free membership to Hollywood Tan?"

Angel glanced down at himself, lip quirking upward in a self-conscious half-grin.

"Uh… melanin. Harm used to put it in my morning blood. She said the expensive suits lost their appeal if I looked like the dead."

Buffy stared at him, momentarily speechless. He was acting as if he _hadn't_ just said one of the most bizarre things she'd ever heard.

"Harm? As in Harmony? Of Spike's psychotic ex-girlfriend fame?"

He nodded. "She was my secretary. Sorry, _administrative assistant_."

"That must've been special." It was all she could do to keep her body from shaking with laughter. Angel rewarded her self-control with a sheepish smile.

"Special. Not exactly the word I would use."

"Let me guess. Another little perk courtesy of our favorite evil law firm?"

"Well, not really so much a perk as…." His voice trailed off, losing its mirth. He looked down sadly.

"Hey," Buffy tapped his arm gently. "What's with the insta-brood?"

When he didn't respond, she cradled his jaw in her hand, tilting his face up to meet her gaze.

"Tell me."

He took a deep, unnecessary breath.

"It was Wes's idea. He thought it would be nice to have a familiar face around." The sentence came out like a strangled sob.

There was nothing to be said to lessen the pain of the moment he seemed to be reliving before her very eyes. Instead, she stepped into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, and pressed her face into his silent chest. His hands splayed across her back, using her small frame to steady himself. Feeling her this way, warm and alive and bare against him was almost enough to force all other thoughts away. He dropped his head to place a lingering kiss on her shoulder.

"Mmmm, haven't you had enough yet?" she mumbled, feeling the water wash his kiss down the length of her arm.

"Never."

She didn't respond, just laughed a little self-consciously and burrowed her face further into him.

"You know Buffy, you were loud enough to raise the dead. Literally."

He pulled her lower body closer, flush against his, where she could feel the truth of his words.

His mouth crashed against hers hotly, hungrily, and she gasped as he stole the breath from her lungs. The dichotomy of his gentle aggression was still surprising. With the newfound knowledge that they weren't courting an Apocalypse with their actions, he was far from the reticent being she had pulled into the bed where a part of her had been born and another had met its final resting place. It was arousing, while holding a hint of challenge that she couldn't resist. Buffy jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He chuckled, unwrapping the limbs and setting her back down. She murmured her disapproval, but he chuckled again, pressing her gently back against the shower wall. Pulling away slightly, he looked at her, and she nearly trembled with anticipation. Her hands reached out to bring him closer again, but he stilled them. He began to lower himself, eyes never breaking contact. Running a hand gently over her calf, he brought the leg over his shoulder and dove into her center in one swift motion. The air left her lungs in a fervent gasp as he claimed her, licking and flicking and biting with rhythmic grace.

_This_, she remembered. They had done this, back when the evidence of her arousal on demure cotton underwear still embarrassed her, edging ever closer to that forbidden line. It was something they had indulged in, all too briefly, before That Night, but not after. Never after. After, it became an integral part of their self imposed torture, refusing at all costs to come that close to temptation again. But in the privacy of her bed, hot and restless and aching for him, her nimble fingers would find all the right places and imagine it was him, twisting her sheets and her insides into knots.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to have him erase the memories of that frustrating year with his mouth and his tongue.

She arched into him, moaning his name, thrusting her hips into his movements. For the first time, she blessed his vampire-ness, because anyone who needed to breathe would surely have suffocated by now. But Angel simply intensified his attentions, stilling her manic hips with one gentle hand while maneuvering the other to join his face between her legs. One, two, elegant fingers found their way inside, matching the pace set by his mouth perfectly. They worked in tandem, fingers, teeth, tongue, fingers, teeth, tongue, until the heat built to a simmering boil. She tore at his hair frantically as the drops of water scorched her fevered skin, every sensation tearing through a blazing path to pool at her quivering center. And when he lapped at her with a speed akin to unrestrained rage she let go, her muscles clenching forcefully and the light exploding in such a dizzying glare that she thought she might faint.

He continued his ministrations, gently coaxing the aftershocks. When she had stilled, he lowered her leg and towered over her, bracing her sapped frame against the wall. Buffy offered him a weak smile. And for the first time since her seventeenth birthday, she saw that cocky/flirty Angel-smirk grace his lips.

This time, it was he that wrapped her legs around himself. Fingernails dug deep into his shoulders as he entered her, still slick and sensitive, and he caught one small, perfect breast in a mouth still filled with her taste. There, with the cool tile pressed against her back and the fire he was stoking inside threatening to devour her, the idea briefly materialized that perhaps this exact feeling is precisely what she had been craving all these years, until all conscious thought was chased away by an all- consuming pleasure.

***

Angel was lost. Totally, irrefutably, unequivocally, _hopelessly_ lost, and he knew it. Every murmured sigh, every whisper of his name like a prayer across her lips, every wild flutter of her strong, ferocious heart were final nails in the only coffin that would ever contain him. With each second that passed, he pulled further away from reality and fell deeper into the world behind those green orbs that fixed on him in wonder, harboring the ocean and the stars and the heavens and _life itself_ in their shimmering depths.

He had never felt more alive than when he was with her like this, not even the lifetime ago when he could actually claim a heartbeat.

For the sake of his soul, he remembered a forgotten day, when there hadn't been enough time and she was all he had wanted. She was still all he wanted. There still wasn't enough time. But he would make damn sure she never forgot again.

Moving inside her, feeling her buck against him, each forceful stroke penetrated into his very bones. It consumed him, annihilating all sense of everything but her, even his sense of self-preservation. If anything could ever make him lose his soul again, it would be this.

And when she pulsed around him, teeth sinking into his neck and her slayer muscles gripping him like a vise, the vampire who had wandered to every corner of the Earth in his two and a half centuries of existence thought, for the first time in quite this way, _feels like home_.

***

Buffy was famished. Having only succeeded in escaping Angel's arms by mentioning that he should probably spend some time with Connor before the kid turned to 'Uncle Spike' for a good time, she made a beeline for the kitchen. All the while chuckling at the bewildered expression on the poor guy's face at the prospect of all the ways the world according to Spike could traumatize his son.

_Ha. That'll teach him to stand between a slayer and her food. _

The victory, however, was short-lived. Not ten paces from the treasures ripe for raiding within the refrigerator, Buffy was intercepted by Faith.

Face taught with worry, hands on her hips, the other slayer gave her an appraising stare. Buffy knew what Faith would see. She looked like a woman who had been very thoroughly ravished, leaving very little to the imagination.

"Soul still attached?"

"Yep. Soul-having as ever."

Faith let out an enormous breath. Still too nervous to really laugh like she wanted to, she opted for a knowing grin.

"Always suspected you were a screamer, B."

Buffy clenched her jaw. How did Faith always know exactly the thing to say to set her off?

"Mind your own business."

Faith flinched, but recovered quickly.

"Look, I was just playin'. I thought we were… Man, you know what? I give up. You hold a grudge longer than a loan shark."

"It's not a grudge."

"Then why can't we get past _this_?"

Buffy really didn't know where it came from. Why Faith was the only person she couldn't find it in her heart to forgive, when she had forgiven others who were less worthy of it. She had always known it could have been her if things had been different, if she hadn't had her mom and Giles and Willow and Xander. And Angel. Perhaps that was where the issues really lay; the bond between her sister slayer and her love. Or perhaps she was afraid how being close to Faith once upon a time had nearly irrevocably changed her. _Would have_ changed her, if it had been just another vampire and not a human on the end of that fateful stake.

"Angel trusts you. You proved your worth a long time ago. I know where your loyalties lie. And all of that, it should be enough. But…"

She spread her arms as if the gesture explained everything. As if it could convey all the frustration and jealousy and uncertainty directed toward her dark counterpart. Maybe it could. Maybe Faith had known anyway. She looked at Buffy, determined to make her finally understand.

"That night? When you came and found me with Angel?"

Buffy nodded tightly. She remembered that night all too well. The excruciating image would never be erased from her memory.

"I begged him to kill me, you know."

_That _she hadn't expected. She blinked furiously, trying to absorb what Faith had said. The pouty lips curved into a mirthless smile.

"I had tried to turn him into Angelus, nailed him with a poisoned arrow, shot him with a gun, tied up and tortured his friend… I would have staked him without hesitation, and he knew it. And when I begged him to kill me, gave him the chance… he just held me. Gave me a place to stay. Told me he'd help."

Her eyes looked beyond Buffy now, somewhere into a past where Angel had pulled her back from the brink.

"I was like an animal. Attacking him, imaging… things even he doesn't know about. It didn't matter. He didn't give up on me. But you know what B? Even after all that, I don't think I could've ever put my full trust in him. It was you showing up that did it. He went against _you_ for _me_. And it's not an ego thing. I know you hated both of us for it. In a weird way, I think you hate me more for that than for anything else I've ever done to you, and I've pulled a lot of twisted crap. But that's what made me believe everything he'd ever said to me. He was willing to have you hate him for it, because he thought it was right. Without that, I don't know if he would have ever reached me."

Buffy thought about that. Thought about Spike, and the determination on his face when he'd begged her to kill him. To just do it and not risk them all, because he wasn't worth it. Thought about her insistence that he was. How she had gone against Giles to follow that certainty, the knowledge that Spike was _important_ somehow. That he deserved the chance to prove himself. And he had.

Was that what Faith was to Angel? A soul worth saving because he saw the good in it? If so, she could concede that his belief had been rewarded. She could concede too that she finally understood with perfect clarity exactly how much Angel must resent her connection with Spike.

If he could put it aside, the least she could do was try harder.

She met Faith's gaze, accepting her sincere confession. Absolving her of sin.

"Are you sure it's not an ego thing?"

The brunette smiled wryly.

"Well, can't really say I minded seeing that pinchy look on your face at his shirt being half off…"

She sobered then, speaking in a plaintive voice Buffy had never heard her use before.

"He's my friend Buffy. Don't hurt him." It was part request, part threat.

It should have aggravated her, but it didn't. She understood a little better now. Always had been a quick learner.

"I won't. I don't know what the hell we're doing but… I can promise that I'll never hurt him."

Irrationally, she wished someone would ask Angel to make the same promise.

***

Angel came into the lobby to find Buffy pulling a mug of blood out of the microwave. He briefly wondered when that had become normal, for both of them.

Time spent with his son hadn't gone exactly as planned. He'd walked into the room, hands in his pockets, shoulders hanging loosely. The picture of nonchalance. He needn't have bothered. Connor had merely smirked, arching a knowing eyebrow at the fresh bite-mark his shirt couldn't conceal. However, he quite admirably refrained from asking questions or making comments, and Angel was grateful that there was no need to explain that which he himself didn't really understand just yet. They talked for a bit, mostly about Connor's experiences at college. But soon Angel felt the hunger, the need that reminded him of what he was. Connor sensed the mood darken and couldn't resist just one little prod, if only to see Angel scowl in suppressed amusement. He refused to accompany his father downstairs, claiming that the sound of Angel's vigorous cradle-robbing had deprived him of precious hours' sleep. Not to mention, scarred him for life.

The effort was rewarded. The shadow over Angel's disposition that had been cast by the hunger was chased away by a boyish grin and a twinkle of blue eyes. And then he had come downstairs to find Buffy calmly providing him with the very thing he detested himself for craving, like it was the most natural thing for her to be doing with her time.

He wanted nothing more than to touch her again. The thirty minutes they had just spent apart was thirty minutes too long.

Angel reached up and rested his cool fingers on the nape of her neck. A tremble ran down the length of her and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.

A blast of wind rushed into the room.

They turned toward the center of the lobby, mesmerized as a brilliant beam of light split the air, swirling inside a torrent like the eye of some miniature hurricane. Angel lifted a hand to shield his eyes. Before he could react, Buffy sprang from his side and ran towards the manifestation.

"Buffy! No!"

But he was too late. The swirling mass seemed to expand slightly, and then drew in on itself with a sucking of air, obscuring Buffy in a flash of white.


	20. Chapter 20 Refuge Lost

**Chapter 20~ Refuge Lost**

_The swirling mass seemed to expand slightly, and then drew in on itself with a sucking of air, obscuring Buffy in a flash of white. _

For a moment, he thought he would scream. But then it was just the lobby again, and she stood intact, smiling brightly. And beside her stood the redheaded witch to whom he owed life and soul, three times over.

"That's new. What's with the flashy?" Buffy wasted no time in embracing her friend.

Willow shrugged, a secretive grin playing on her lips. She looked more confident than Angel had ever seen her.

"I like to make an entrance."

Faith, leaning over the second floor railing, laughed appreciatively.

"Hey Will. Nifty trick."

Angel said nothing, the cold fingers of dread only now beginning to unclench. Taking the moment to compose himself, he regarded Willow thoughtfully.

How different was this strange creature from the girl he had known. Even compared to the previous year, when she had already been immensely powerful. He could feel the magical energy rolling off her in waves, deep and ancient and tied so intrinsically to the Earth and the dimensions that he could only compare it to Illyria. But even that didn't seem quite accurate. This was light and life, so bright and potent that it nearly blinded him.

So much power, housed in that small frame. She turned her green eyes on him, a smile and an apology all in one, and he couldn't help but smile back. She may have been the shy girl who saved him, once upon a time. Now she was a woman, the most powerful being he had ever encountered.

He met her halfway, and she held her arms out to him in that welcoming gesture so familiar from her. He accepted, enfolding her into his embrace.

"I'm afraid thanking you is becoming a habit, Willow."

She laughed softly, then pulled back to look at him. The laughter dissipated, and she was as serious as he'd ever seen her.

"It was the least I could do. I'm so sorry, Angel. About everything. Fred was…"

He waved it away, unwilling to let his mind wander down the treacherous path. Besides, that particular cross wasn't hers to bear. The blame for Fred lay squarely with another.

"This is the second time in nearly as many years that you've saved my hide. I'd say there are no apologies needed."

She nodded, seeming to accept that. Couldn't help but add, "Well, I'm sorry I thought you were evil again. Or, you know, seduced by all the evil goodies they threw at you."

Her tone was light, but laden with meaning. He understood. Willow knew better than anyone how easy it was to be sucked into a darkness impossible to crawl out of.

"You know Angel. All it takes is a kick-ass wardrobe, and that's the team he'll bat for," Faith teased, sauntering down the stairs.

Angel looked down at his disheveled self.

"I do miss my wardrobe," he stated morosely.

Buffy controlled the urge to mention she preferred him without one. He seemed to have read her mind though, like always, because his lips twitched in the subtlest of smirks. She turned to her friend, avoiding his heated gaze.

"So, what's the what? Is there some new catastrophe that's desperately seeking Buffy, or did Giles finally bore you to death?"

She felt Angel moving closer beside her, his arm brushing gently against her own tantamount to a jolt of electricity. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to concentrate. Willow's eyebrows lifted momentarily, before she answered.

"Unfortunately, this visit is brought to you by our regularly scheduled Apocalypse. Or maybe, Angel's not so regularly scheduled one."

Her eyes flicked between Angel and Buffy as she spoke.

The vampire's entire frame went rigid upon hearing the words, and Willow watched with fascination as Buffy's fingers twitched in response, aching to reach out and soothe him.

"What's happened?" Buffy's voice was that of the Slayer, even as the heart of the woman broke for him all over again.

"We don't know much more than what I told you before, Buffy. Except…all that dark power giving me the willies? It's coming from Rome."

The sound that escaped Angel was a low throaty grumble that distinctly resembled a moan. If possible, his body tensed even further.

"Dawn!" It was the voice of the woman now, the sister, the frightened girl.

Willow placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

"She's fine. Giles flew out there today with a group of slayers. And," she continued carefully, glancing at Angel, "the Immortal placed her under his protection. Although he said it in a much more scare-the-crap-out-of-you way."

Buffy had the good grace to feel guilty. There were never any promises between them, but she had left Rome without a word.

There was no doubt the Immortal knew why.

Buffy reached out to graze Angel's hand with her fingertips. It was cold, still. But he was there. Real and solid and whole. It was worth whatever came next.

It was everything.

"You really think it's Wolfram and Hart?" Faith cracked her knuckles. Like she was willing to take them all on with her bare hands.

"Don't know anyone else who has access to that much dark mojo. I can feel it. Topsy-turvy energies make for quite the fun headache."

"But Angel just took out the Black Thorn! Would they really move this soon, with so much damage to their side?" Buffy hated to think that everything he had done was for nothing.

"With the Powers' Champion out of the picture? I wouldn't put it past them. Losing the Black Thorn diminished their power base, but didn't wipe it out completely. Whatever Angel started… They weren't prepared for it, but maybe now they have to see it through."

The three women looked at Angel sadly. His expression was impassive, unreadable. All save but the tiniest twitch of a muscle at the corner of his left eye, the briefest flicker of something dark and foreboding moving across his prominent brow. Buffy felt her breath catch, a shiver creeping its way up her spine. The ancient demon of the Slayer stirred in primal response to that look.

"Crap."

All attention flew to Faith as the word left her lips. Her eyes tracked furiously in the empty air, taking in the pieces. Shoving them around to make them fit.

She began to pace, finger stabbing the air and punctuating her words.

"I knew I shouldn't have listened to Spike. Since when does anyone listen to Spike, anyway?"

Buffy watched her rising agitation.

"Faith! Stop. Breathe. Speak."

Faith stopped the erratic movements. Took in a deep, cleansing breath. Spoke with frustration and self-loathing coloring her voice.

"The night we… At the bar. Spike and I, we overhear these two guys. Human, if you can call them that. Real sleazeball types. Anyway, they drop the name 'Wolfram and Hart'. Not much to get excited about, right? But definitely more than any two innocent low-lifes should be having a heart to heart about. So, we track 'em to some nasty warehouse. Sleazeball numero uno and I…. we have a little chat." Her eyebrow arched, leaving nothing to the imagination about the nature of the 'conversation'. She pressed on. "Dude was hired to do a job. Didn't know much about it, didn't care."

"What kind of job?" Buffy just knew she wasn't going to like where this was headed.

"Ransack the basement of a wrecked law firm. Grab some stuff, deliver it to an address in downtown L.A. That was it, end of info. Spike said he'd check it out, that we shouldn't say anything until we knew more. Not with how messed up…"

Faith's eyes, wide with realization and regret, flew to Angel's.

"I'm sorry."

He still hadn't moved, hadn't said anything. It was more than a little unnerving.

Buffy rounded on her, their newly acquired truce all but forgotten.

"Dammit Faith! Why wouldn't you tell me? Do you really think this is some game?"

"I told you why, B! We didn't want to worry you guys if the little greasemonkey was lying."

"Haven't you learning anything? You're not flying solo anymore. You don't keep things like this from us!"

"Guys…" Willow's attempt at intervention went unheeded. The Slayers faced off, hackles rising.

"This is just like you Faith! You just barrel on ahead without thinking!"

"Me? What about you? Still little Miss Self- Righteous. I said I was sorry! What more do you want?"

"Enough." His roar was the sound of something breaking. Something that had stretched and bent until it could bend no more.

They sprang apart, turning guilty frowns towards an enraged vampire.

How this must affect him…. They had forgotten.

His hands clenched tightly at his sides, jaw set and fixed. A study in barely controlled anger. A volcano ready to erupt.

"Angel…" The woman he had lost himself in less than an hour ago was trying to calm him. How far away that pleasure seemed now. Racing through emotions at this speed was disorienting.

"That's enough," he repeated, his tone clipped. He pointed to the two reunited friends. "Buffy, Willow, find Spike and tell him what's going on. Faith, you're with me."

Buffy stared at him, shocked. She was used to him being part of the team, a team where she gave the orders and others obeyed them. It took her a moment to remember that it had been a long time since he had followed, or held anyone's counsel but his own. A long time that _he_ had been the leader of a crew that no longer existed. She looked at his face, at the quiet authority he carried with such grace, and thought that maybe she didn't mind seeing this side of him, even if it was against her nature to cede her leadership to another. It suited him, to stand tall and proud and powerful, for others to look to him for a course of action, to entrust him with their lives.

Although, later, they would definitely be having a talk about the whole order- barky thing he just pulled.

"Where are you going?" she asked, already missing the loss of their short-lived sanctuary from the real world. It just figured that one night was all they were allowed to have before some new badness forced them out of the temporary reprieve.

He looked at her intently, conveying something with his eyes that she couldn't quite latch onto, but filtering the warmth and affection from his calculating gaze. When he spoke, his voice was rough, like sandpaper across her skin.

"My son. No way is he involved in this any longer. He needs to go home. Now."

She shared a look with Faith. _Yeah_, the look said, _the kid will so *not* go quietly_.

She almost reached for his arm again, if only to let her support flow into him for a moment. But he was already gone, long legs and paternal devotion fueling his vampire speed up the staircase.


	21. Chapter 21 Knowledge Found

**Chapter 21~ Knowledge Found**

With Willow's locator spell, finding Spike proved a lot easier than the conversation Buffy was sure Angel was trying to have at that very moment.

"We getting there my way, or the old fashioned way?" Willow asked.

Buffy scrunched her face in distaste.

"Your way makes me all headachey. Lets do this like the pre- 'beam me up Scotty' days."

Clearly, she had been spending too much time around Andrew.

They weren't twenty feet out in the L.A. sunshine before curiosity got the better of Willow.

"Ok, _what_ is going on with you and Angel?"

Buffy kept her bewildered gaze fixed ahead, but stumbled anyway.

"Going on? Nothing. Why would you ask that?"

"There's a vibe."

"What vibe? There's no vibe," she said, far too quickly.

"There's totally a vibe. You're completely vibey." Willow paused, searching her friend's face. "Did something… happen?"

Buffy stopped walking, finally looking at Willow. She considered her options, sizing up the redhead. It was probably going to be like a dog with a tasty bone. Willow was latched onto this one, and probably had every right to be.

"You're not gonna let this go are you?"

"Depends. Does a Frovalox demon regurgitate on its enemies?"

"I really wish I hadn't learned the answer to that the hard way."

"Stop being avoidy. Did something happen with you and Angel?"

A familiar smile sealed her fate. Buffy sighed in resignation.

"There was a definite… something."

Those wizened eyes studied her, seeming to pinpoint and dissect, before realization dawned.

"Oh my God."

Buffy nodded. The matured witch began to babble like she was sixteen again.

"Oh my God! Wait…you... and Angel…. and…. he.… but he's still…so he didn't….. so no grrrr?"

The Slayer could have laughed. If the world weren't in peril again.

"Nope. No more bad happy."

"Are you sure it's permanent? Maybe it was just the one time." Her voice was tinged with concern. For the world. For her friend.

"More like the six or seven times."

Willow's eyes widened in shock and understanding, her lips forming a silent 'Oh'. Followed by a not-so-silent one.

"Oh! Ok, then, yay! I can put away my Orb of Thessulah, and …. why aren't you happy?"

Buffy sighed again, resuming the walk.

"I am. Even in the midst of all this insanity. It's just…I don't know what it means. You know how much I loved him, how I never thought it was over between us. Not really. And now I see him so clearly, and I didn't think it would be possible, but I love him even more. He's _so_ different, Will. He had a family, a mission. He never had that with me. Wacky prophecy or not, he's more human than I ever could have imagined. He never could have been this way if he hadn't left Sunnydale."

It hurt, to know that. To know that she had held him back from his true purpose. That he would not have become the warrior he was if he hadn't ripped out her heart.

"Ok. And there's a million ifs where that came from, Buffy. You wouldn't be the person you are now if he hadn't left. If Dawn hadn't been sent to you. If you hadn't died. If we hadn't awakened all the slayers. If you hadn't spent the last year being Apocalypse-free party gal."

"Guilty as charged. I just don't have a clue what he's thinking, Will. I'm not his world anymore. I haven't been for a long time."

It was Willow's turn to sigh. As much as she had grown, her friend still had those random moments of childish brattiness. Obstinacy that prevented her from seeing two feet in front of her face. Now, with slayers the world over, she could afford to indulge in such small weaknesses.

"Buffy, you know I love ya, but you can be a real dodo sometimes."

"I can be an extinct bird?" There was a smile under the words, but fear too.

"You know what I mean. Just like you know how Angel feels about you. He loves you. He's always loved you. He _will_ always love you, until the day he di— ceases to exist."

"I want to believe that."

"Let me guess. You still haven't learned your lesson to just ask him these things?"

The blonde ducked her head sheepishly. "I…"

"Just talk to him. It's what I always tell you. Are you ever going to listen?"

"Ok, ok. I'll talk to him. Once we address our little annual problem of the world possibly ending. Satisfied?"

They walked on in silence. Buffy sensed the woman beside her mulling over something.

"I can hear the wheels turning."

Willow bit her lip, slightly embarrassed.

"Look, I always wanted to know. I couldn't ask after you… with Spike, because… gross, but…."

"Will…"

"The uh, the whole vampire stamina thing…?"

Buffy smirked, warm tendrils of desire snaking their way through her blood at the memory.

"Word of mouth just does not do it justice."

***

He was asleep on a small bed inside a tiny dump of an apartment with walls as blue as his eyes. A study in contradiction from the crypt where their bodies and wills had clashed. Buffy thought it was a step up. Evidently, Angel wasn't the only one who was more human these days.

He groaned as they entered, shifting up slightly to lean back on his elbows.

"You gonna pay for that door?"

Buffy shrugged. She hadn't broken the door. Just the handle.

"Put it on my tab."

"And you neglected to knock because…"

"It's more fun to annoy you."

For the first time, Spike seemed to notice that she had not come alone.

"Red. How's life off the Hellmouth? I hear inter-dimensional travel is all the rage."

"I'm good, Spike. It's nice to see you, you know, in one piece." Surprisingly, Willow realized that it was the truth.

"Why do I have the notion this little visit is going to decrease my chances of staying that way?"

He rose, sighing heavily, brushing a hand through his hair. The white strands were beginning to curl at the ends, and it made Buffy smile.

Spike looked at her, amused. Did a double take, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Sniffed the air. His mouth tightened in anger and disbelief, and he took a step back, away from her.

"Damn it all to hell," he growled, sharp blue eyes locked on hers.

He had known. He had known, damn him, that this would happen eventually. Inevitably. Still, he had convinced himself that maybe it wouldn't.

Yet deep down, he had always known.

"I'm sorry, Spike," she said. But she was only sorry for the hurt reflected in that clear, clear blue.

He reached for the red and white package and pulled out a cigarette, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers. Lit it, trying to get accustomed to this new torture. Breathed in the smoke deeply, desperate to expunge what flooded his nasal passages, his olfactory sensors, his very brain.

Her smell, immersed in another's.

Somehow, he managed to compose himself. To remember that that ship had sailed. That he never really had her, and had been painfully aware that he never would. He had hoped that maybe someday, maybe if he could come to her with a beating heart that Angel could never offer…

The whole real boy bit didn't seem to matter anymore though. The only thing to do here was to tackle it, head on. To hide the hurt behind sharp words. So long as they didn't inspire her to use sharp wooden sticks.

"I see someone has been shagged six ways from Sunday. Guess Peaches isn't a eunuch after all."

Even as the words escaped him, he was reminded of the ramifications they implied. Although, if she had recently come face to face with Angelus, she didn't seem too upset about it. Spike decided to press his luck.

"So, if Tall, Dark, and Boring's soul absconds into the aether because of your… attributes," he amended that last word at the withering stare she shot him, "can I stake Angelus into the great beyond?"

"No one's getting staked Spike," she bit back. "And Angelus is _not_ coming out to play."

He puffed at his cigarette smugly.

"Oh? You no longer the old man's cup of tea for perfect happiness, luv?"

"I amend my previous statement. Someone _is_ getting staked."

But there was no anger behind the words. And he thought, just maybe, it would be possible to accept that this is what they were to each other. She held his gaze for a moment in silent acknowledgement, before asking the last question he would have expected.

"So, you gonna quit playing Lone Ranger long enough to fill us in on your little solo gig?"

He lifted his eyebrows, surprised that Faith had decided to be forthcoming regarding their secret project. But things became clearer in the next instant, when he recognized the hardened set of Buffy's features, and what it meant.

Spike groaned.

"Is it really too much to ask for a bloody break between bouts of saving humanity?"

***

His hands trembled. At the moment, it seemed that they would never stop trembling. He wondered, if he was discovered, how long he would still have hands.

But this had to be done.

He understood now, knew what was happening. A switch that once flicked, could never be shut off.

He had been a party to it, a willing facilitator of dark deeds. But no longer.

This was something he could not abide.

His feet were moving of their own accord. One step, then another. No conception of where those steps were taking him. No plan.

Just the _knowing_.

The affirmation that, while the price for a betrayal of this magnitude would most certainly be his life, the cost of doing nothing would be far greater.

It spurred him forward down the cobblestone streets, staccato of footsteps mirroring the pounding of his heart.

The notion came that maybe he should hurry. Hurry to decide, hurry to his destination. Wherever that may be.

Because something else was occurring. A flurry of activity, the beginnings of ranks being closed and lines being drawn. A group of slayers was arriving imminently. But not _the _Slayer. Not the one he sought. _She _was nowhere to be found.

He wondered when The Others would find that troubling.

Without her though, who could he turn to? Who could he trust to do what was right, regardless of consequence?

The decision solidified before recognition of having made it.

Yes. This had to be done.

Lucien Ascentona intensified his pace through the balmy night, an envelope clasped in his now steady hands.


	22. Chapter 22 The Long Road Home

**Chapter 22~ The Long Road Home**

In the end, Connor's fervent protests were overruled by a very determined vampire. Not that he didn't give it his all. There was even a moment when (Faith had to stifle a laugh at that) Angel looked like he was ready to bodily throw the kid over his shoulder and be done with it. But he had finally prevailed, satisfied enough with begrudging acquiescence on his son's part.

They waited for sunset. Then they rented a car and took Connor home. Or at least, back to the dorm at Stanford where he passed for just a normal college student.

It should have been a six hour drive. Angel got them there in four and a half, the old Chevy groaning in disapproval. It was a wonder the wheels hadn't flown off.

"Damn you drive like a demon." Faith's knuckles were white from gripping the sides of her seat.

"I think he misses his Maserati." Connor's response earned a stern glare from his father, but the vampire said nothing.

A moment of uncomfortable silence descended when they stepped out of the vehicle. Faith kind of disagreed that sending Connor away was the best course of action. But Angel was pretty pissed off, and she was the reason, so she decided not to push her luck. Connor hugged her, clearly enjoying the odd combination of softness and tone in her body a little more than he should have. She laughed and shoved him playfully on the shoulder.

"Remember what I said, Junior. Watch your neck. It's the best advice anyone will ever give you."

She leaned back against the car, kicking the gravel with a booted foot, genuinely sorry to see the kid go.

The boy and the vampire walked to Connor's building in silence, each entrenched in an internal struggle.

Angel wondered how many times he would be standing this close to his son, giving him up for his own good. If he would ever get the chance to see him under non- Apocalyptic circumstances. If there would ever be more to his existence than heartbreak and madness.

The boy in question wasn't so much wondering, as straining to reign in the imperative coursing through his blood. _Battle the forces of evil. Protect the Powers' Champion._

He wanted to be a part of it, to join his friends in the fight to which he was heir apparent. He knew, he remembered, in his prior lifetime that had been the vampire's fondest wish. But things were different now. Now, in this brave new world Angel had all but sold his soul to create, he would never allow it. The son he had given up to a normal life would never be permitted to take such a risk.

He wanted to shout that it was unfair. That Angel had no right. That he was ready to jump into the fray, to stand side by side with this man who loved him.

He wanted to say that it was his choice to stay with Angel. That there was nowhere else on this earth he would rather be.

But he could say none of those things. Because that would only make this harder.

Because the last thing he wanted was to be a burden, or a distraction.

Because if he wasn't around, that was one less potential sacrifice his father would have to make.

So instead he said:

"Just… don't wait for another Apocalypse to drop by, ok Dad?"

And he saw on that ageless face the effect the words had. Especially that last one.

Angel pulled his son into a fierce hug, clinging to him tightly. Connor laughed a little breathlessly.

"Hey! Some of us actually need to breathe."

But he threw himself into the embrace. It was the only show of acceptance he could give now. He hoped it was enough.

Halfway through the front door, he turned back to look at Angel.

"Take care of yourself. I don't wanna have to do any more portal jumping to save your ancient ass." He met the dark eyes that were nothing like his own. "But I would, Dad. I would."

Then he was gone.

And Angel finally, _finally_, felt like he had done something right. But why did doing the right thing invariably involve sending the people he loved away?

***

They'd been on the road for fifteen minutes before Faith spoke.

"Look, Angel, I'm sorry…"

She didn't mind apologizing to him. After all, he had been the one who taught her to say the words and mean them.

"You had your reasons. As much as it grates to say it, so did Spike."

He risked a glance at her, even though their current speed definitely demanded that his attention remain firmly on the road ahead.

"But don't ever keep things from me to protect me. It never ends well."

He had learned that in the most painful way possible. Hadn't misguided concern for his well-being been what drove Wes to forever alter the course of all their lives?

"Yeah. Road paved with good intentions, and all that."

"Exactly. And I've already been where that road leads. Twice."

She laughed, a low throaty chuckle to which not even Angel was immune. He let himself relax just a little, concentrate on the freedom of flying down the endless stretch of highway. Let himself put away the losses behind and the dangers ahead, just for these few short hours. He felt her fingers on his arm, resting briefly against the soft material of his shirt.

"Thanks Angel."

Like always, he knew exactly what she meant.

The rest of the journey was made in silence. His hands gripped the steering wheel, an extension of the machine beneath them, the air sweeping through his hair and wiping the slate of his mind clean. Faith leaned back lazily, letting this dead man pull her back into the world of the living, feeling the comfort she only experienced in his presence until it lulled her into a pleasant sleep.

They made it back in just under four hours, Angel flooring the gas to beat the rising sun.

***

Buffy awoke to find Angel leaning against the closed door, watching her with an unreadable expression. She arched her back, stretching, and noticed with satisfaction the lust that sharpened and darkened his stare.

"Hey," she said softly. "We're all set. Leaving for Rome just after sunset. Anyone ever tell you traveling with you vamps is a real pain in the butt?"

He said nothing. Didn't even give her the courtesy of smiling at the lighthearted banter she managed even though she wasn't fully awake yet.

"Angel? You dropped Connor off?"

He inclined his head a few centimeters in affirmation.

"And you think he'll stay put? From what I've seen, he's a chip off the stubborn ass block."

The only answer she received was a subtle shrug. This was getting ridiculous.

"Ok, quit with the creepy."

An unexpected chill worked its way into her bones, but it wasn't something she could account for. After all, Angel was nothing if not taciturn. A century of wandering around with no one but rodents for companionship was bound to do that to a guy, and besides, she was used to reading him without needing too many words. Plus, there was the fact that she was wordy enough for the both of them. So the silence was something intrinsic to him, and she didn't mind it, not too much at least.

But this felt different, somehow.

He must have sensed her unease because he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets in the gesture that was another thing intrinsic to him.

"I'm sorry about earlier, Buffy. Speaking to you that way… I shouldn't have…"

The chill left her in a relieved expellant of breath.

"It's ok. I get it. It's a dad thing. Or a macho broody vampire with a power complex thing. I'm not sure which yet."

One corner of his mouth slightly lifted at that, so she figured she was on the right track.

"I think it's more of a 'too used to being the boss' thing. First with Angel Investigations, and then running a multi-million dollar corporation. It's hard to let go of that instinct to lead. I don't think I can." He shrugged. "Even with a slayer ordering me around."

Buffy mentally sidestepped his little passive-aggressive jab. At least he was joking around, not being all mute in a corner.

"Wow. An apology _and_ an explanation? I guess not being sexually repressed kinda loosened your tongue, huh?"

He smiled, albeit uncomfortably. She wished for the Angel of yesterday, the one who had kissed her senseless with the certainty of unshakeable faith. He was shaken now, having given up his son again. She longed to make his burden easier to bear somehow.

Reaching under the bed (_his_ bed. _Their_ bed?), she pulled out the waiting box. He seemed hesitant to move, so Buffy got up and brought it to him. He opened it slowly, both intrigued and uneasy, wide eyes flying to hers at the contents within.

Buffy smiled sheepishly. They had been on their way back to the hotel with Spike in tow when she had spotted it, staring at her from the storefront window as if begging to belong to him. It had been entirely too expensive, but hey, what was a slayer allowance for if not to treat vampire lovers to overpriced gifts?

He pulled the jacket from the wrapping paper, feeling the soft lambskin glide under his fingertips.

"Why did you…?" Voice, like face, filled with wonder. It was her turn to shrug.

"I know how much you liked the other one. So I thought you should have it. Adds to the whole mysterious, creature of the night look."

He held her eyes for a long time. Then, put his gift aside gently. Pulled her to him, wrapping broad arms around her tiny frame. But it was a loose hug, distant almost, and she really wasn't that surprised when he pulled away.

"Look, Buffy. Thank you, but you really, really shouldn't have. We… we need to talk."

That sinking feeling she was so familiar with settled in the pit of her stomach. So that's how it was going to be. She said nothing. He barreled on.

"I know we have to work together on this. But after it's over, maybe…. Maybe we should just go back to the way things were before."

She knew there was something driving him to do this. A reason that was probably very valid in his mind. Maybe more than in just his mind. But she couldn't help it, couldn't stop the bitterness of déjà vu from coloring this moment. From stealing her reaction and shaping it, from directing an attack straight at his heart.

"At least we're not in a sewer this time."


	23. Chapter 23 All Or Nothing

**Chapter 23~ All Or Nothing**

He wasn't sure what the hell he was doing. Somewhere between the serenity of the cleansing drive and now, the world had quaked under his feet, knocking him off balance.

Angel had walked into his room and saw her, sleeping peacefully on his bed, claiming her place in his life. If he'd had any breath to steal, it would have been hers forever. And in that instant, he had known.

If anything ever happened to her, it would destroy him. Not send him running to a monastery for a few months. Not make him sit listlessly and refuse to move or bathe or feed. _Destroy _him, more assuredly than any stake or beheading or sunlight. Annihilate him, right on the spot.

And something _would_ inevitably happen to her. She was the Slayer after all, and that came packaged with the job. She'd already died, twice, and he had been powerless to stop it. But he _could_ ensure that no harm would come to her because of him. That no force on this plane or any other could ever use her to bargain, or avenge, or bring him to his knees.

So he watched her sleep, drinking her in as a thirsting man consumes his last drops of water. He tried to convince himself that, like sending Connor away, this was the right thing to do. Braved himself for a reaction that would likely culminate with a stake in some part of his body. Wished that he had never tasted her in ways that would haunt him for centuries, knowing all the while that he wouldn't change it even if he could.

And now here he was, essentially breaking up with her. Again. After she'd presented him with a very expensive and thoughtful gift, no less.

Cordy would have called him a mentally deficient jackass, and she would have been right.

"At least we're not in a sewer this time."

She always did go straight for the jugular. Little else could have hurt worse than that.

His voice was low, tinged with resolve and heartbreak.

"I can't watch you die because of me, Buffy. It nearly destroyed me the last time, and I hadn't even seen you in months."

A little of the anger seeped out of her with his words.

"Angel… I'm human. No matter what, I'm going to die someday. For good, die." She looked at him, the intensity of that green glare burning into him like fire. "And what about you? Do you know how I felt, with no idea what had happened to you? Thinking you'd just gone all kamikaze and left me behind? It was… terrifying. And there's not much that scares me these days. I could lose you. No shelter one sunrise, a stray stake. But you don't see me running."

"No one would ever try to use me to get to you, Buffy."

She looked at him like he was a few brain cells shy of demented.

"You're kidding, right? Just because Wolfram and Hart don't have a big ol' yen for me doesn't mean I don't have enemies. And just because there's hundreds of slayers now doesn't mean that some Big Bad can't swoop in and decide to take the most powerful one out. Or use you to do it."

"And you're willing to risk that? To risk yourself, knowing you would do anything to save me?"

She looked at him sadly, as if realizing something for the first time.

"I've been without you for so long, Angel. I hadn't realized…that I wasn't really _living_. That I was some other girl, like the real me wasn't really there at all. I would rather be with you, really with you, baggage and all. Dying by your side is better than pretending to be alive without you."

He wanted to argue, to convince her that she was wrong. But the sincerity of the words touched something deep inside him. He knew that if she refused to budge for much longer, he would never be able to let go.

He tried again, a different tact this time. One that had worked before.

There was nothing he could give her. In light of his recent failures, everything he had to offer was probably even less than he could back then. How could he have ever deluded himself into believing otherwise?

"I'll never change Buffy. Never age. Never… be human."

He nearly choked on the word, and waited to see if she would have the good sense to loosen the shackles she'd fastened around his heart.

***

This time, she resolved, there was no way he'd walk away from this without a fight. Buffy could see his stance weakening. It was a last-ditch attempt, these words from years gone by. The sentiment may have been true, then. But not any longer.

"I'll never change Buffy. Never age. Never… be human."

She stopped short of asking him about a certain prophecy. For whatever reason, it was a secret he felt he still needed to keep. Or maybe he'd been so long without hope, he couldn't dare believe in its promise.

But perhaps there was a way to make him understand. There were things he needed to hear anyway, things he needed to know about the life he thought he had given her.

"Angel, when you left me… you were right. As much as it felt like I was dying inside, a part of me knew it even then. So I did what you told me to. Did the whole picnicy, daytime beach outings thing. Had dates that didn't involve demon hunting. Found better places to neck than against every tombstone in SunnyRest… mostly. And it was nice. I could pretend that I was a normal girl with a normal life and a normal boyfriend. That made it almost okay that you weren't there. But you know what? It didn't last. It didn't matter that it was nice and safe and _normal_. All that mattered was that he didn't consume me. In the end, all that mattered with any of them was that they weren't you."

"You thought… I was right for leaving?" It was an insecurity that shocked her, coming from him. He had always seemed so… certain. So intent on walking away.

"Yeah, although the way you did it was pretty crappy. But I had to grow up. To have all those things you couldn't give me. I thought that was what I wanted—a life like any other girl. And now I've had it, and I know, without question what I need. Where I belong. Human or not, it doesn't matter. All I want is for my life to be with you. It's all I've ever wanted."

She let that hang between them for a moment, daring him to argue.

"Buffy, I—"

"No, Angel, no! You can't tell me what's best for me anymore. You can't tell me that I don't know what I want or what I'm getting myself into. It's been a long road and a lotta years since Sunnydale. If you don't want this anymore, I can accept that. But don't you dare act like I'm not old enough to know my own heart!"

She watched as the walls of his resolve crumbled, each word escaping her lips having chipped a piece of them away. But she needed more. She needed him to let her in. All the way into that darkness he kept from her, down into the deepest recesses of his soul.

She needed to know he was finally stripping himself bare, that they were finally on equal footing.

"No more hiding, Angel. This is all of me. I need all of you."

He struggled with it for another moment. It was long enough that she began to wonder if he was telling her the real reasons for fighting this so hard. But then he reached out and clutched at her, frantically seeking something tangible to hold on to.

"You have all of me, Buffy. You always have," he whispered, voice a low rumble against her ear.

She lifted her head to make him give her more, but his lips were already crushing hers, desperate and frenzied in a quest beyond words. Buffy answered in kind, pressing herself against him, finding all the answers she needed in the hard planes of his body and the reactions her touch elicited. She pulled him towards the bed by his shirt, then tore it straight down the middle, ripping the offending garment from him.

"Hey! What did that shirt ever do to you?" he protested half-heartedly.

"It got in my way," she growled. "You should take heed."

The sound went straight to his heart and his groin simultaneously, and he practically launched himself on top of her on the bed. Hands and mouth everywhere, touching and tasting, and then, suddenly, slowing almost painfully. Movements languorous and painstakingly tender.

She grappled with him wildly, trying to get the upper hand. Ignoring the impatient thrusting of her hips, he maintained his slow, gentle rhythm. She bucked under him and let out a small whine. He shook his head slightly, serious and focused. Intent. _Not vampire and slayer_, his eyes said. _Man and woman_.

Even if she didn't know it now, it was what she would want, someday.

And, despite everything, he still needed to believe.


End file.
